


Resonance

by el3anorrigby



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Angst, Confusion, Denial of Feelings, Hurt/Comfort, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Mind Matters, Original Character(s), Period-Typical Homophobia, bittersweet fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-17
Updated: 2015-12-03
Packaged: 2018-05-02 02:35:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 22,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5230634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/el3anorrigby/pseuds/el3anorrigby
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wiping out memories at will, sounds like something out of a science fiction movie, doesn’t it? Well, it’s not just in the movies now, as science continues to move forward, continually turning fiction into frightening fact. And Napoleon is going to get a taste of this discovery, all out of the willingness of his heart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

A hard punch lands on Napoleon’s face before he has time to process what’s happening. The inside of his cheek cuts against his teeth and he can immediately feel the taste of copper in his mouth. The knock causes him to stagger back against the wall behind him. He steadies one hand against the rough, hard surface and groans as he rubs at his hurting jaw. The pain smarts across his face but the ache in his chest is a thousand times more than the actual physical hurt he’s feeling at the moment. He spits some of the blood out and straightens himself as he stares at Illya who is incensed, furiously wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, a look of pure disgust etched on his face.

“You don’t do that again, Cowboy, you hear me?” Illya warns, his voice full of venom, his eyes wild and angry.

As they stood their with their bodies trembling with anger and confusion, they could hear sounds of their assailants’ footsteps hurrying past them. Clearly they are hidden enough from their enemies’ view in the darkened alleyway. 

Moments before, in their hurry to escape from trouble, Illya had pulled Napoleon into one of the narrow alleyways of Frankfurt. He had pressed his body up against him in order to hide from their approaching enemies. In the process, his face had come up too close to his partner’s and in a moment of sheer weakness, Napoleon had succumbed to temptation, had done the unthinkable by kissing Illya. At first the Russian didn’t understand what was happening when Napoleon had cupped his face in one hand, the other curling around his neck, puling him close. When their lips met, Illya had gasped and moaned, and Napoleon wasn’t sure whether it had been out of sheer surprise or pleasure. But he was certain Illya had reciprocated the kiss, he’d let his tongue in, had let him taste him. But then just as quickly, he was shoved back and the punch had landed square on his face. 

Napoleon takes in a deep breath as he tries to gather his thoughts, wipes the blood that still dribbles at the corner of his lips. He then tries to slowly reason with the Russian.

“It’s called an act, Peril. The kiss wasn’t intentional. I’d done it to distract their attention.”

But of course that’s an outright lie. Because Napoleon had dreamed of kissing Illya ever since Rome, ever since Illya had saved him from Rudi’s clutches, ever since their secret pact when they’d burned the disc together. Napoleon had wanted Illya for a long time but he’s been good at keeping his emotions in check. He’d kept his feelings buried deep inside his heart because he didn't know how Illya would react, how he'd take the knowledge of Napoleon's feelings for him. And tonight, his questions were answered in the worst possible way. Tonight, a moment of vulnerability had caused him to slip and the outcome on Illya’s part is total revulsion and his reaction just leaves Napoleon reeling. 

“Intentional or not, it is still disgusting. I’m not one of your honeypot marks whom you can simply kiss and seduce,” Illya growls, looks almost murderous. 

“Fuck it, will you just get over it? I told you it was merely an act!” Napoleon retorts, his own anger rising. Illya’s words sting every time he opens his mouth and Napoleon isn’t sure whether he’d be able to take another blow.

“No matter. Just don’t let it happen again,” Illya hisses.

“Don’t worry about it. There won’t be another again.”

Without saying anything else, Napoleon leaves Illya at once in that darkened alley, all angry and humiliated. He leaves him with his chest heaving and hands trembling in fists. Napoleon knows from then on that it’s going to be extremely difficult to work with the Russian, not with the scathing words Illya had uttered imprinted firmly now in his mind. And he knows exactly what he has to do next.

Once they’re back at UNCLE’s headquarters, Napoleon goes to Waverly and immediately requests for a transfer, citing personal reasons. He tells Waverly he can’t continue working with Gaby and Illya, warns him that if he does will only cause UNCLE problems in the future, something in which he has no control over. Waverly is a bit surprised at Napoleon’s sudden strange disposition and is inclined to probe further but when he sees how adamant his agent is, he agrees to help him out.

“I can’t promise you anything, Solo, but I will try to work something for you.”

At that moment, feeling completely bereft, Napoleon knows he will not hesitate taking anything Waverly has to offer.

 

***

 

“Mr. Solo, there’s something you might want to take a look at, if you’re game for this.”

Napoleon is summoned to Waverly’s office about a week after he had requested the transfer and his eyes grow wide reading the documents in his hand. He then looks up at Waverly, feeling a little sceptical at what his superior is suggesting.

“This isn’t some kind of move back to the CIA, is it?”

Waverly smiles. 

“No, don’t be daft, I’m not going to let my best agent go back to the CIA. This is merely a program that the CIA has been working with MI6. I think that this could help you with the problem you’re dealing with, whatever that might be, Solo. You could consider this as an option. This way, perhaps, you don’t need to push for a transfer. You work around the problems you’re currently having.

Napoleon leans back in his chair and stares at the word printed in bold. 

_Selective Memory Suppression Program_

Is he crazy enough to want to do this? Is he that desperate to rid Illya off his mind? Does Waverly even know what he’s offering Napoleon?

“What do I have to do to get into this program?” he asks after a while despite himself.

“I’ll let the team from MI6 know that I’ll be sending an agent for the program and you’ll go to their London headquarters for two weeks where it’s being conducted. Although this is a collaboration between the CIA and the British Intelligence, I’ll make sure your participation will remain anonymous from the CIA.”

Napoleon raises an eyebrow at Waverly. “You’re powerful enough to do that?”

“Well, I do have my ways, Solo,” Waverly replies authoritatively, a little annoyed when Napoleon seems to underestimate him.

Napoleon reads on through the file. What strikes his interest the most are the methods being used for the program and Waverly, somehow, seems to be channeling his thoughts.

“It’s the technique they use that’s really fascinating. A person can consciously block any unwanted memory that he or she may have, teaches a person’s brain ways to suppress these memories. The positive part of this procedure is it is not permanently erased,” Waverly explains as he sizes Napoleon’s reaction after he finishes reading the document.

“But why have this program in the first place?” Napoleon asks next. He knows deep in his gut he wants this but needs further information to convince himself that he’s making the right decision, if he accepts the offer.

“It’s a new technology from the Americans, basically to help people cope with PTSD, people who’ve been through war, people who would like to be rid of those awful memories.”

“With positive results?”

Waverly nods. “So far the program have yielded very positive results indeed.”

Napoleon takes in a deep breath, tries to put whatever doubts left in his mind at ease.

“This may or may not work on me,” he mutters, tries to see if Waverly might want to convince him out of doing this. But then what Waverly says next seals the deal for Napoleon.

“That is true, there is always a possibility of it not working on you. Depending on what kind of memory you want to suppress. But you had come to me for help, and I’m giving you an option. I hate to break you, Kuryakin and Teller apart because together as a team, you’re the best I’ve ever assembled. So this is my work around method.”

“And if this fails?”

Waverly shrugs. “I'll give you your transfer.”

Napoleon takes in a deep breath. 

“The ball is in your court, Solo.”

“I’m going to be a lab rat,” Napoleon says in resignation then adds, “But then, what else do I have to lose?”

In the end, knowing he’ll be solely accountable for the decision he’s about to make, he nods and mutters, “I’ll do it.”

 

***

 

“Solo, have you gone out of your mind?”

The next day, Gaby barges straight into Napoleon’s office, not even bothering to knock. She stands before him and leans down, placing both her hands on his desk, staring daggers into his eyes. “Are you going to explain this to me?”

She throws the documents, the one Waverly had shown to Napoleon before, on his desk. He grunts, irritated that she has disturbed him at work. He knows dealing with an angry Gaby is not easy, sometimes the task is even more difficult than dealing with an angry Illya. 

“What questions do you have for me, Teller? I’m sure Waverly has told you everything you need to know?” he says, grabs the papers, waves it in front of Gaby’s face before throwing it down once again.

“But why?” Gaby asks, her brows furrowed together in concern. “It’s crazy!”

“I don’t need to explain myself to you,” he calmly says, returns his attention on the stack of paperwork he needs to clear before leaving for the program at the end of the week. 

“Of course you do because I don’t approve of it!” Gaby exclaims at Napoleon. He doesn’t look up at her as she continues to make her worries known. “Please, Solo. It’s dangerous.”

“Relax, it’s standard op procedure for agents to go for training like this,” he mutters, winces a little at the lie that comes out of his mouth. He wonders if Gaby had noticed it. When he looks up, the scowl on her face tells him she’d cottoned on his lie. 

“You think I’m some kind of rookie agent to believe your bullshit?”

“Language, young lady,” Napoleon smirks but Gaby only continues to glare, her eyes almost bugging out much to his amusement. He leans back in his chair and wonders how Gaby could be so small yet so frightening when she’s angry.

“Does Illya know about this?” she asks, gesturing at the document on Napoleon’s desk. Her gaze this time is firm and resolute. 

“No,” he replies curtly.

“You _are_ planning on telling him, right?”

“Of course,” he lies. Because he’s planned on leaving without telling Illya. It’ll be much easier that way. He’ll let him find out from Gaby or perhaps Waverly will let him on the details. 

When Gaby continues to scowl, Napoleon gets up from his chair and walks over to her before pulling her into his arms. 

“Look, don’t worry, okay? It’s just some program. I’ll be fine, trust me,” he tries to convince her.

Gaby fidgets a little, knowing she’s about to lose her argument but before she could agree with him on this, she needs to know his real reason for wanting to do such a crazy thing.

“Alright, but I just need to ask you one more question, Solo.”

He huffs out an exasperated sigh at her stubbornness. Knowing she wouldn't give up until he answers her questions, Napoleon releases her from his hold and throws both his hands up in defeat. 

“Okay, shoot.”

“What sort of memory do you want to suppress?”

Napoleon stiffens at her question, tries to think of an answer but his wit suddenly has deserted him.

“Is it me? Or is it Illya? Is it something that we’ve done?” she asks. 

There is a softness in the way she’s looking at him at that moment, wanting to really understand Napoleon’s true intention, perhaps wanting to help. And Napoleon, not knowing how to deflect Gaby’s scrutiny, answers her the only way he can. 

“I want to forget the painful ones,” he murmurs and Gaby gasps hearing that. 

“Is it Uncle Rudi?”

Napoleon doesn’t even think of Rudi when Gaby had asked him the question. All he wants is to forget his hideous feelings for Illya, the feeling of wanting him everyday and the knowledge those feelings could never be returned. Napoleon only wants to be rid of that. 

Not Rudi, not of his war memories. Yes, he has nightmares of them, but those are tolerable, those he can handle. And those aren’t painful enough compared to Illya’s rejection.

“Yes, it’s Rudi,” Napoleon in the end lies and then there are tears in Gaby’s eyes as she goes to envelope him in a strong hug.

 

•••

 

The last time Illya is faced with such a situation, where he’s staring at Napoleon’s back while he’s packing his belongings into his suitcase had been in Rome after they’d taken care of the Vinciguerra affair. That had been the start of them, the beginning of Napoleon and Illya. A partnership he never imagined could escalate into anything more than what it had intended to be. Fast forward a year later and Napoleon has become more than a mere partner. He’s Illya’s friend and confidante, someone Illya trusts with his life and he cannot imagine his life without Napoleon in it. But lately, fate is putting their friendship to a test so severe, Illya fears he might lose him in the end.

“Why are you doing this?” Illya asks, tries his best to control his escalating temper. 

He is still staring at Napoleon’s back, watches him being as meticulous as he could ever be, taking his time packing while still ignoring Illya who is leaning against the wall behind Napoleon. He had found out from Gaby of Napoleon’s participation in the program and had gone straight to his apartment to confront him. The American had let him in, but he’s built this distance around him for the past week or so and it has driven Illya mad. 

If Illya could have his way, he would take the suitcase off Napoleon’s bed and flung it over, throw his clothes out of it, to make his feelings known about what he actually thinks of Napoleon’s stupid decision.

“Solo, you cannot ignore me forever.”

Napoleon wants to say _'watch me'_ but he bites his lips, refrains himself from saying anything. But when he finally does face his partner, he finds Illya has moved to the foot of the bed, not a feet away from him. Illya’s almost glowering, his shoulders a hard line of tension and his hands, which Napoleon is certain are trembling hard, clenched into fists at his sides. For a moment, Napoleon wants to put his arms around Illya. He wants to tell him that everything will be alright and that he’s doing this for his sake. But his pride prevents him from doing so. He lowers his gaze and stares at his feet as if it's the most interesting thing in the room. 

“Cowboy,” Illya calls him again, uses that affectionate nickname to good effect. Napoleon responds by looking up but his stone cold heart will not relent easily.

“I’ve explained to Gaby my reasons for doing this, perhaps you can get my answers from her.”

Illya shakes his head. “Whatever your reasons, I think this is completely unnecessary. Why you volunteer for such a program?”

“Why are you making this difficult?” Napoleon says in exasperation, returning Illya’s question with one of his own, as if not understanding Illya’s behaviour towards him. “It’s just a fucking program. Agents go through various programs, various training. And this is just one of it.”

“I am not being difficult. You just cannot go through with this,” Illya replies, and then repeats himself almost like a command. "You can't do this."

“Why?” Napoleon asks as he steps a few inches closer towards Illya. 

"Because I don't want you to."

"But why?" Napoleon has moved right into Illya's personal space. Almost on eye level, he challenges Illya again. "Why?"

“It’s unethical," Illya mutters. He doesn't even realise he's holding his breath. 

Hearing that, Napoleon lets out a cynical laugh and goads him. “Unethical? Oh come on, Peril, you know me! I’m a thief, a liar! Technically it’s not entirely wrong to bracket me in that ‘unethical’ category. And you know what I can do. You’ve seen me in action, experienced it up close and personal. So in that context, I am exactly the right person to be signing up for this program, don't you think?”

Losing it at once, Illya grabs hold of Napoleon by his shirt collar, pulls him close until their noses almost touched. “Don’t be an idiot. This is clearly dangerous. Call Waverly now, tell him you are not going, tell him you changed your mind,” he growls. 

“Aww, Peril. You sound like you actually care about me,” Napoleon mutters before twisting free from Illya’s hold. He straightens his shirt and smirks at Illya. However, there is defiance in his eyes and Illya’s chest tightens when he sees it. He knows exactly why Napoleon’s doing this and he has to try his best in order to stop him from going through with his decision.

“You do this because of what I’d said to you, you do this because I hurt you.”

His voice is softer than before, but the seriousness still apparent. He stretches out a hand to grab hold of Napoleon once again but Napoleon quickly steps away from Illya’s reach. 

“I feel a lot of things, Illya,” he murmurs, the hurt in his voice unmistakable, “But not everything I feel is about you. Not everything I do is about you.”

_“You lie.”_

Illya’s voice shakes with anger, with fear, with uncertainty at what he’s feeling at the moment but Napoleon isn’t going to back down from his decision, no matter what Illya does.

“If you think I’m lying then so be it but I’m not going to change my mind about this. So please, if you don’t have anything else to say, just leave.”

There is a quick exchange of angry and hurtful words between both men before Illya leaves, bangs the apartment door in fury. He knows he’s hurt Napoleon but wonders who’s suffering the repercussions of his actions more at the moment. 

 

***

 

With no new missions expected for the next few days, Gaby has decided to just relax and stay in all weekend, listen to some music, while catching up on some reading. The relatively quiet afternoon is a welcomed break instead of her normal hectic schedule and she’s certainly relishing it. But it cruelly comes to an abrupt halt when Illya comes storming into her apartment minutes later like a hurricane. For a moment she regrets giving her apartment’s spare key to the Russian. 

“Illya? What’s the matter?” she asks him at once. 

He paces up and down the middle of her apartment muttering Russian curses along the way and looks so troubled, Gaby doesn’t even know how to approach him at first. When Illya suddenly groans and reaches out for a decorative antique chair Gaby had placed just underneath her living room window, her eyes widen in horror. It is an expensive one in which Napoleon had ‘exclusively’ helped her procure and knowing what Illya’s intention is when he sees his hands on it, Gaby screams her head off. 

“Illya Kuryakin I swear if you break that I’ll get Waverly to send you back to wintery Russia, you won’t know what hit you until you can’t come back to UNCLE ever again, I swear to God!”

Illya stops, grits his teeth in protest and reaches for a nearby vase instead. “Da, how about I break this instead?”

Before Gaby could say anything, he throws the vase and it shatters, breaks into pieces as it hits against the wall just behind Gaby, leaving her utterly shocked. 

“Illya are you crazy?! If you came here intent on destroying my apartment then you should just get out!” 

She then runs up to him, almost wanting to slap him but realises an act of violence to counteract one will not do the trick. She grabs his arms instead to try and calm him down.

“Illya, please,” she tries in the softest voice she could muster. Illya heaves and leans his head down. He falls to the couch and Gaby quickly takes her place beside him. She runs a comforting hand on his arm, tries to sooth his anguish away. 

“Tell me what the matter is,” she almost pleads, stills his hands in a firm grip. “Tell me, is it Solo?”

He turns to face her with a look of remorse at what he’s done. “It is Solo,” he confirms.

“You went to see him.”

“Yes,” Illya nods, then grimaces. “He volunteers for that stupid thing because of me.”

Illya’s lost Gaby with that little revelation. “What do you mean it’s because of you? I don’t understand? He told me it’s because he wants to forget Rudi, and the nightmares.”

Illya is clearly distressed. He’s fighting an internal battle, hesitating whether he should let her know what had actually happened between Napoleon and him. 

“Illya, I can’t help if you don’t tell me what’s going on.”

“Cowboy, during our last mission in Frankfurt, when we were escaping bad guys, he—he kissed me, and I hit him in return,” Illya finally admits, and he can’t help the regret that slips into his voice thinking about the incident again. What he’d done had been a natural reaction on Illya’s part, he’d hit him because he was shocked at Napoleon’s blatant daringness, but the words he’d uttered, Illya hadn’t meant it to come out as harsh as it had. Ever since then, he knows Napoleon had outrightly avoided him, had only spoken to him when spoken to and Illya feels terrified at how badly the entire thing has affected him. And when he’d found Napoleon had offered himself for the ridiculous memory suppressing test, he’d gone berserk. 

The anger he had lashed out at Gaby earlier is mainly directed at himself and he feels sorry that he’d dragged her into this but he badly needs someone to talk to, badly needs her at this moment. 

Gaby on the other hand, starts to rationalise the entire thing as soon as Illya had told her the truth. Everything starts to make sense as she now understands why Napoleon had signed up for the program.

“What did you say to him, Illya?” she asks. Unfortunately, Illya’s answer is as devastating as she had feared. 

“You said the kiss disgusts you?” 

The horror etched on Gaby’s face isn’t helping Illya at all.

“I was shocked! The kiss came out of nowhere,” Illya says defensively. 

He’s certainly not proud of what he’d said but it can’t be undone and now he’s to deal with the fact that he’s ruined their friendship forever. 

“Cowboy’s gone to do something really stupid and I know he’s doing this because of what I had said. He wants to forget what had happened. But I worry, Chop Shop girl, I worry it’ll be much worse than that.”

“Why didn’t you just apologise? Say you’re sorry, say you didn’t mean those things you’d said?” Gaby asks. Illya knows she’s right, because that’s what he should have done. But he suspects it wouldn’t be as easy as that to make Napoleon change his mind.

“Why didn’t you tell him that?”

Illya groans at Gaby. “I can’t.”

“But why?”

“I just can’t!” Illya shouts and Gaby grumbles beneath her breath. “Men!” 

She’s angry at him, angry because he’s too proud to admit the mistakes he’s made and now everything is just a jumbled mess. With one partner gone and another in hysterics, Gaby can’t afford to lose her grasp on the situation at hand. She quickly kneels in front of Illya and tries to reason with him once again.

“Illya, listen to me,” Gaby begins, grabs his hands in hers, “Napoleon’s gonna be gone for about two weeks. This thing he’s going up for might not even work on him, Waverly says this to me. So let’s not fret, okay? This is Napoleon we’re talking about. His pigheaded, stubborn American mind is not the same like anyone else’s. And if he’s doing this in order to forget you, or whatever feelings he’s keeping inside from you, I don’t think it’ll work that easily. I mean it’s you. He can’t forget you that easily, Illya. Believe me.”

Illya nods, albeit a little unsure at what Gaby is implying. And even though he’s not quite as optimistic as she is, they will just have to wait for Napoleon to return before Gaby could prove her theory right.


	2. Chapter 2

Napoleon had arrived at the British Intelligence headquarters two days earlier. He’s had a quick briefing regarding the memory suppression program, given articles about the entire facility, a formality given to visiting guests and have done nothing else besides that. To his relief, however, he’s scheduled to meet the personnel who’ll be handling his case that afternoon. Any day later and he’d be bored out of his mind. 

While waiting, he checks his appearance in the large mirror hung on the wall of the huge reception area of the waiting room. He is wearing a loose fitting shirt and a pair of khaki pants. The look is more casual than his usual suit and tie ensemble. He figures with whatever brain tests he needs to endure in the lab later on, the bespoke suit won’t benefit the occasion. As he straightens himself, he hears somebody calling him out.

“Mr. Solo, good morning. I’m Agent Jack Wishaw. I’ll be handling your case.”

His English accent is distinctive, Napoleon thinks, smiles at the approaching agent.

“Good morning,” he says, takes his outstretched hand in a firm handshake. 

Napoleon tilts his head a little as he assesses the man before him. Agent Wishaw’s wearing a dark navy sweater vest over a white shirt, with sleeves rolled up to the elbows, and dark brown pants to complete his outfit. Nearly the same height as Napoleon, there is impish, almost delicate look about him. Gentle-voiced, with a pair of glasses placed low on the bridge of his nose and the most beautiful mane Napoleon’s ever seen on a man, he’s unlike any typical agent he’s ever encountered before. If Napoleon is to ditch the pomade on his hair, his curly locks might actually rival the man’s look. He chuckles at the thought and that earns a raised eyebrow from Wishaw. 

“What’s funny, agent?” he asks. 

“Nothing’s funny. Just thinking how I’d ended up here in the first place.”

Of course, Napoleon isn’t going to tell Wishaw he’s comparing his own hairstyle to an agent whom at a glance might be mistaken for a young nerdy scientist. What Wishaw says next however grounds him back to the reason why he’s there. 

“You know, I get that a lot. Agents volunteering for the program and then questioning themselves how they end up being lab rats.”

“And how many lab rats have you actually handled? I’m not your first, am I?”

Hearing that Wishaw smirks and somehow that manages to irate Napoleon. Usually, he’s the one doing the smirking, with either Illya or Gaby being his victims. It does feel strange to be the one on the receiving end. 

“Does it matter? Don’t you trust me, Agent Solo?” Wishaw asks.

“The knowledge would be my security blanket,” Napoleon answers with a hint of annoyance. 

The procedure will involve his brain for goodness sake, and he doesn’t want some rookie scientist who doesn’t know what he’s doing to tamper with his mind. When Wishaw doesn’t answer, Napoleon decides to let it go and figures he’ll ask him again later. He follows Wishaw in silence as he leads him to a separate facility within the compound of the building. His eyes dart around and notice he hasn’t encountered anyone else which he finds rather strange but doesn’t voice his concern. They continue in silence down a few long and narrow hallways and after a while, the walk seems endless. Napoleon starts to feel like he’s in a labyrinth. 

“This area is kind of isolated from the rest of the building,” he mutters to himself, but Wishaw nevertheless answers his rhetorical question like an assurance. He could sense Napoleon’s anxiousness 

“Yes, our research facility is basically a different building altogether, a separate secure environment from the rest. In the case of any breach, this is to protect our research findings, to protect personal and confidential data that we have. You should understand how this works, agent.”

Napoleon nods before throwing him a glance. He notices the file Wishaw’s taken out from the briefcase he’s been holding in his hand. 

“Mine?” he asks. Wishaw catches Napoleon’s line of sight then answers, “Yes, had to do some reading on you, need to know a little of your background before we can actually start anything.”

“Of course,” Napoleon says. 

Suddenly he feels a tad uncomfortable like his life is an open book. He hates to think that this stranger has actually acquired details about himself and wonders if Wishaw’s actually judging him as they speak.

“There seem to be no one else around here,” he says after a moment.

“Most of them are up on level four. We are at the research and development level. Lower ground. Today, it’s just you and me here,” Wishaw explains.

“No one else up for this test these two weeks?”

Napoleon’s curiosity is getting the better of him. His question, however, manages to bring a puzzled look on Wishaw’s face.

“What makes you say that?”

Napoleon tugs Wishaw by his elbow. “Well, I assume there’d be others. Based on what Waverly had told me, he sent me here because you guys are doing the tests at the moment. It’s a convenient timing on my part.”

“There are tests done from time to time over here, but our next one is only going to be in another three month’s time. That’s when selected agents from the separate agencies are sent. Yours is a special request from UNCLE.”

It dawns on Napoleon now that Waverly had specially arranged this program for him alone, in order to sort his act together, solve whatever problems he’s facing his team. Obviously Napoleon had underestimated Waverly’s authoritative power within the British Intelligence community. He wants to say he’s touched with his boss’ thoughtful gesture, but at the same time he also feels guilty because if Waverly ever finds out what his real problem is, he probably would kick him out of UNCLE. 

“We’re here.”

A little lost in his thoughts, Napoleon didn’t realise they have reached the end of the hallway where a large metal door stands before them. 

“What you’ve got in there? Frankenstein?” he asks a little wide-eyed. 

Wishaw laughs at Napoleon’s over the top expression, pats him by the shoulder. “Come on, let’s get inside,” he says before opening the door to let Napoleon in. 

“You can call me Jack, by the way,” Wishaw says as Napoleon walks past him into the room.

“Okay,” Napoleon answers. 

He scans the average sized room before him. It is practically empty, save for two large stools and one reclining chair placed beside a long metal table in the middle of it. There are some strange looking equipment on the table, he’s guessing they must be Wishaw’s memory erasing tools if he’d gotten the term correct, and what suspiciously looks like a heart rate monitor just next to it. Other than that, the walls are ivory white and the floors bare. This is just splendid, Napoleon mutters quietly to himself.

“You okay with this, agent?” Wishaw asks. 

“I’m here, I suppose I don’t have much of a choice now, do I?” 

Wishaw hums. “Shall I call you Napoleon?” 

Napoleon then turns to face Wishaw. He has closed the door behind him. Napoleon tries not to feel too jittery and gives the agent one of his more charming smiles. 

“That’s a handful to pronounce, don’t you think, Jack?”

“It’s fine by me,” Wishaw answers as he walks towards Napoleon. Oddly enough, in the short space of time of knowing him, Napoleon feels he could actually trust the man. 

“Just call me Solo,” he says as Wishaw gestures for him to take a seat on one of the stools. 

“Okay, Solo. Shall we get started?”

Napoleon nods.

***

From where he is lying on his bed, Illya could see the shifting patterns on the ceiling, the light from the moving traffic outside of his Bangkok hotel room seeping through the blinds. His eyes roam, unable to sleep even hours after retiring to bed. Though his mind and body are exhausted, Illya can’t stop thinking about Napoleon, gets angry every time he thinks of how he’d left things between them. He doesn’t understand why the American could crawl underneath his skin and make him feel things he’s not supposed to feel, think things that are too dangerous to give thought to. 

Realising he won’t be able to get any sleep that night, Illya decides to do something more fruitful, like cleaning his gun. Throwing the blanket off his body, he then grabs hold of his weapon he’d placed underneath the nightstand beside his bed and pads towards his bedroom door. When he opens it, he’s surprised to find Gaby sitting on the couch with a drink in hand. 

“Can’t sleep?” she asks him as he sits on the chair opposite of her. 

Illya doesn’t say anything, just places his gun on the table. His intention to disassemble it is put on hold at the moment. 

“Well, I can’t sleep, so I figured why not drink and find out more about our mark we’ve to follow tomorrow,” she says. Illya notices the dossier on the couch next to Gaby and nods. “That’s a good idea, I suppose.”

They had arrived in Bangkok the morning before, their first mission after Frankfurt, their first mission without Napoleon in a long time and it’s apparent without the American, they’re missing a certain something Illya can’t quite place. Thankfully this mission Waverly had asked of them is a fairly simple one, something which does not require Napoleon’s skill set. He would hate thinking anyone else filling Napoleon’s shoes. 

“Can I ask you something, Illya?”

Groaning inwardly, he gives Gaby an unimpressed look, like answering her would be a bother.

“It depends on what you want to ask me, then I’ll see if I can give you an answer,” he huffs. Gaby being Gaby, however, doesn’t deter easily. She places her drink on the table and leans forward with both elbows resting on her knees. 

“It’s about Solo.”

Illya isn’t sure whether he wants to know where she is going with the topic. The last conversation they had over the American who is now somewhere in London doing god knows what with his brain didn’t turn out too well. He had almost ended up wrecking Gaby’s place, knowing he had failed to talk Napoleon out of his crazy decision. Now Illya isn’t sure whether he wants to talk about Napoleon at all, let alone with Gaby. She knows too much for her own good. 

“Why must we talk about him?” he asks, a little uncomfortable at Gaby’s questioning gaze on him.

“Because he’s our friend, and because I hate to see you moping around without him like a sad puppy.”

“I am not puppy! And I _do not_ mop around,” Illya argues. Gaby, however, knows better. She rolls her eyes at him.

“Illya, I’m not stupid.”

Illya scoffs. “You think you know everything?”

“I know more than you do.”

He then frowns at her. “What do you mean?”

“After what happened in Frankfurt, why didn’t you try to talk to Solo about it?”

Gaby is starting to infuriate Illya. He hates having to repeat himself, knowing he’d already explained himself to her. 

“I told you he had avoided me. Why do you still need to ask me this?” he says, tries his best to control his voice down, tries his best not to burst into his uncontrollable rage. Regret always gets to him every time he thinks about what he’d done, but he can’t turn back time, can’t undo something he desperately wishes he could. Napoleon blatantly avoiding Illya had hurt him more than he’s willing to admit. He knows he had been too proud to say he was wrong, too stubborn to acknowledge that his reaction to Napoleon kissing him had been over the top. Yes, the act had stunned Illya but it was far than disgusting like he had so aptly put it. 

“Before Frankfurt, you haven’t had any problems with Solo, have you?” 

Illya looks at Gaby uncomprehendingly. How she could even ask that question is beyond him. She should know them better than anyone else.

“Of course not, why are you asking this?”

Gaby then regards Illya for a moment before moving to sit beside the Russian. She’s not entirely certain how he’d react, but after having an internal debate with herself for the last few days, she’s decided Illya must know the information she’s about to feed him. 

“Illya, you told me Solo volunteered for the program because he wants to forget about what had happened between you both, about what you’d said to him.”

“That’s what I feel. He tells me otherwise,” Illya murmurs, the bitterness in his voice clear. He turns his face away from Gaby, but she quickly places a finger beneath his chin, pulls his attention back towards her. 

“Tell me the truth, did that kiss really disgust you?”

Hearing that, Illya’s jaw almost drops. He can’t quite believe the question that had just come out of Gaby’s mouth. Why is she trying to make it hard for him? Why is she drilling answers from him like he is some kind of guilty criminal?

“Illya, do you hate him for it?”

“I don’t hate him. I was just angry, I say things when I’m angry!” Illya finally bursts. He tries to stand but Gaby grabs at his sleeve, pulls him down once again.

“Illya, please don’t run. We need to talk about this,” she pleads.

Illya lets out a frustrated shout, almost like a helpless angry cry. If it was anyone else, he might have punched Gaby in the face. 

“Why are you asking all this?” he cries like a desperate child wanting to escape punishment. But Gaby’s interrogation isn’t over and Illya has to endure it no matter how much he’s going to hate it.

“Have you ever thought about that kiss again? Have you ever thought about you and Solo—”

“No, I haven’t! And I don’t think of him! And the kiss is nothing, Solo didn’t even mean it! And when it happened I got angry and I hit him and we argue! That is all! It stops there, nothing else!” he exclaims, angry with chest heaving, cuts Gaby off before she could finish her sentence, before she could say what he’s desperately trying to deny. He’s dangerously close to losing it when what she says next just freezes his entire ability to think.

“Illya, Solo cares a lot about you, he cares about you more than just a friend. He told me this before and made me promise not to mention any of this to you. He doesn’t know how you’d take it if you were ever to find out. And I guess what had happened in Frankfurt was a slip up on his part. It was just a culmination of his feelings and I didn’t want to tell you this at first but —”

“No! You’re delusional. This is what you think. Is not true!”

Illya’s entire body is trembling at Gaby’s revelation, bristling with all kinds of emotion. He hears ringing in his ears, feels the room spin out of control. He’s acutely aware that everything around him has faded to the background, except for Gaby beside him, Gaby still talking, lips moving, saying things that make Illya want to throw up. 

“I’m telling you the truth, Illya! That’s why it had hurt him badly when you’d said those things to him!”

Illya doesn’t bother to stay around any longer, he doesn’t think he would be able to handle anything else Gaby has to say.

_“I don’t want to hear this.”_

He glances sharply at Gaby, flinches when she touches his hand. He stands and before she knows anything else, Illya’s gone, leaving her sitting alone on the couch with the realisation of what she’d done. But she doesn’t regret her decision at all. Illya would just need to learn to deal with the fact that he’d hurt Napoleon more than he’d realised.

***

“The amygdala, a part of the human brain, are two almond-shaped groups of nuclei located deep and medially within the temporal lobes of the brain. Research has shown that it performs a primary role in the processing of memory, decision-making, and emotional reactions. It is considered part of the limbic system.”

Wishaw speaks to Napoleon as he continues to show him the slides projected on the wall. Napoleon seems a bit disinterested, but he listens nevertheless.

“There are functional differences between the right and left amygdala. In one study, electrical stimulations of the right amygdala induced negative emotions, especially fear and sadness. In contrast, stimulation of the left amygdala was able to induce either pleasant or unpleasant emotions. Another evidence suggests that the left amygdala plays a role in the brain's reward system. So in your case, Solo, we’ll have to focus on your right amygdala.”

When Wishaw mentions electrical stimulations, he suddenly thinks about Rudi’s torture. He recalls being strapped to that chair, helpless, only thinking of dying terribly while being shocked. 

“Solo, do you understand what I’ve explained so far?”

Wishaw’s voice pulls him out of his wandering thoughts. He stares for a moment at Wishaw and gives him a quirk of his lips. 

“Would you mind just explaining it to me in layman terms?”

Wishaw smiles at that and shuts the projector off. “Are you even interested to know how this is going to work? Or do you just want to get straight into action?”

“Straight into action,” Napoleon answers. “You can skip the explanation bit.”

Wishaw shrugs. “Alright then, if you say so.”

He switches the lights on before pulling his stool next to Napoleon. 

“You know I’ve read your background files. Learn about your role in the war. I’m assuming you came here because you want to get rid of those memories? Disassociate yourself from the war?”

Napoleon is suddenly aware that he would have to disclose things he’s kept secret all this while to Wishaw. He’s never told anyone about his feelings for Illya except for Gaby. Now, this man sitting before him will need to know details. He hesitates for a moment.

“In order for this to work, I’ve to specifically tell you what I want to forget?”

Wishaw nods. 

“I’m just like a doctor. Doctors need to understand their patients’ problems, need to know what they are dealing with first. And they also need to be responsible enough to give the correct diagnose to their patients. Can’t give them the wrong advice, might make it worse,” he explains with a smile.

But Napoleon continues to be nervous.

“Will this be confidential? I mean—”

“You can trust me,” Wishaw says at once, dismissing Napoleon’s worry. There is a serious manner about him now, something Napoleon hasn’t seen before this. And he knows he can’t back out now, not after coming so far. 

Wishaw, on the other hand, waits patiently, doesn’t rush Napoleon into telling him what he might not want to reveal because he understands it is not easy for one to admit their fears. 

“You’re read my UNCLE file?” Napoleon asks Wishaw, figures he should let him on the truth. There's no point in hiding any longer.

“Yes.”

“What do you know about my partners?”

Wishaw glances at the file before him, gives it a quick read and then looks up at Napoleon once again. “You have two. A Miss Gaby Teller and a Mr. Illya Kuryakin. You met them both in Rome when you were first partnered together.”

“I’m in love with one of them,” Napoleon blurts and hearing that Wishaw leans back in his chair at once. There is a look on his face Napoleon can’t read, but his expression worries him. He fears if the agent is judging him. He might be one of those people who can’t quite stand the fact that one man could have feelings for the same gender. It irks him to be the one in that predicament but who is Napoleon to control who he has feelings for?

“You know how they say loving the wrong person can make you a criminal? Can lead to an arrest, or a prison sentence?”

Napoleon stiffens hearing that, feels he’s made a mistake. Now Wishaw is going to report him and he’ll go to prison for his stupidity and he’s going to lose both Illya and Gaby in the process. His expression stays grim when Wishaw doesn’t say a thing, feels his scrutiny overbearing. But what he says next manages to dispel Napoleon’s fear.

“Fear of gross indecency, Solo. Yours isn’t the first case I’ve to deal with. And don’t worry I am not judging you at all. All of this is confidential, remember?”

Napoleon feels his face burns hot. He looks away as if ashamed at what he’s about to admit to Wishaw. 

“Solo, you can tell me.”

Napoleon takes in a deep breath. “I’m not _that_. It’s only Illya.”

Wishaw immediately places one hand on Napoleon’s shoulder. The touch seems comforting almost. “Are you sure?” he asks. The question does not seem patronising but like a confirmation of sorts. Wishaw needs Napoleon’s confirmation and he gives it to him.

“You can cut my heart open to see if I’m lying,” Napoleon says. The firmness in his voice gives Wishaw no further reason to doubt him. 

After fiddling about with his memory equipment tools, one that looks almost like a hair drying unit a person would find in a hairdresser’s salon, Wishaw returns his attention on Napoleon. He gestures for him to move over to the reclining chair in which the American does without much protest. He lays his head back comfortably and Wishaw goes to stand beside him.

“So you want to forget your feelings for Illya. Does he, may I ask, feel the same way about you?”

Napoleon gives Wishaw a saddened smile for an answer.

“No. Unfortunately, he doesn’t.”

Wishaw sighs and Napoleon is a little surprised at his reaction. There is a look on his face like he cares or understands Napoleon’s situation. Napoleon doesn’t want to read too much into what he’s seeing so he asks Wishaw what’s next on the agenda. 

“As you might already be aware of, we started this program a couple of years back. The purpose was mainly to help people dealing with PTSD, to help relieve them of their nightmares.”

“Yes, I am aware of this.”

“But we’ve also had a few cases like yours, Solo. And one, in particular, I had a hand on personally. The difference between that case and yours were both agents had wanted the memories of the other erased.”

Napoleon raises an eyebrow.

“Both?”

“It wasn’t a one-sided affair. But both wanted to forget, for safety concerns, and they both entered the program voluntarily.”

For a moment the knowledge almost left Napoleon reeling, makes his problem seem trivial. 

“What happened?” he murmurs. 

“You see, there are basically two things that we conduct here. One is the memory suppressing program. You learn to control the memory you want to suppress. The second one is the one we’ve currently been experimenting on. We call it the Pool.”

“The what?” Napoleon asks. Wishaw almost grins looking at Napoleon’s puzzled face. He then continues to explain the procedure in detail. 

“Pool or lake in Latin is called lacuna, which means an unfilled space or a gap or a missing part. Like a hiatus. In our procedure, the lake is seen on medical imaging as holes filled with fluid within the brain after a patient suffers from a stroke or seizures. Such tiny holes can result in symptoms such as memory, sensory, or the easier term, brain damage.”

“So you give them seizures. What happens to a patient that goes for this pool treatment?”

“They go through a process that involves mapping of their memories, a process of erasure that is technically the brain damage I’d mentioned earlier. The patient’s most recent memories are the first to go. If you have for example three memories of a person, A, B and C, C will go first being the latest and A, the earliest memory, will go last.”

Napoleon wants to ask again, but Wishaw is quicker, answers him before the question leaves his lips. 

“The two agents I’d mentioned, they went for the brain damage.”

“Why not the suppression program?”

“It doesn’t work for them. The memory keeps coming back even after it’s suppressed. It’s not easy.”

Napoleon shifts in his seat. “And the brain damage. It worked on them?”

“It did. But not without regret,” Wishaw says, his voice suddenly an octave lower. 

“What do you mean?” Napoleon asks. Suddenly he’s more intrigued to know the outcome of two strangers he’s never even met. 

“One watches in horror while the other gradually forgets the feeling for the other. And when the other realises he wants to hold on to the memories instead, it gets kind of painful, don’t you think?”

Napoleon’s almost afraid to know the answer of his next question. “The case of one of them backing out?”

“Yes.”

Napoleon closes his eyes. It’s different for him. Illya doesn’t feel the same. He doesn’t have to suffer. It’ll only be him. When he opens his eyes, Wishaw is eyeing at him intently, as if trying to communicate something to Napoleon. 

“What a loss, to spend that much time with someone, developing feelings for them, only to find them becoming a stranger to you in the course of time.”

Napoleon shivers a little hearing his words. “Are you trying to talk me out of doing this?”

“Do you really want to forget your feelings? You’ll regret it, Solo.”

There’s an almost defeated look in Wishaw’s eyes and then suddenly it dawns on Napoleon.

“It’s you, isn’t it? You and your partner,” he asks, his voice barely above a whisper. But Wishaw catches every word and nods. 

“I watched how he gradually erased me out of his life. You wouldn’t want Illya to see you do that to him.”

The regret in his tone of voice is so palpable, Napoleon almost wished he could take some of his pain away. 

“But Illya doesn’t feel a thing for me, it’s different.”

“I suppose it is. But I would regret it if I was Illya.”

Napoleon has seen, has felt the venom of Illya’s words and he never wants to go through that hurt again. And he doubts Illya would regret his decision for doing this. For what it’s worth, Napoleon is doing him a favour, save him the humiliation of ever finding out about his unwanted feelings. 

“Believe me, you don’t want to regret it, leaving things unsaid, unfinished.”

Wishaw is still talking, still trying to convince him that he still has a choice, that it still isn’t too late to back out from doing something he feels Napoleon will regret later on. 

“If you’re talking based on your experience, it’s not the same between me and Illya,” Napoleon argues. He’s determined more than ever now. He wants to get it done. He grabs Wishaw’s hand and tells him to get on with it. 

“You’re sure about this, because once the procedure starts, you can’t stop it until it finishes to the end,” Wishaw says, but Napoleon only nods his head. “Yes, I’m sure. Just do it.”

“Okay then.”

Agent Wishaw then goes to prepare the necessary as Napoleon lies there, waits for the session to begin. 

***

Gaby hears repeated knockings. At first she thinks she’s dreaming but when the knocking persists, she realises it’s coming from her bedroom door. The time on her watch says five thirty in the morning. Moving quickly to open it, she finds Illya standing there looking utterly troubled, dejected, bereft. His eyes are red, like he’d been crying and his hands are obviously shaking.

“Illya? What’s wrong?” she asks in alarm. 

“I feel the same, but I cannot admit to something like this, can I?” he says, chokes out his words. 

Hearing this makes Gaby gasp as she realises what Illya is admitting at.

“Oh, Illya,” she cries, immediately pulling him into a hug. He holds his trembling body close. 

“It’ll be okay. We’ll work things out. And I’m sure Napoleon will be fine as well.”

“What if he forgets when he comes back?” Illya murmurs, his voice muffled against Gaby’s shoulder.

“No, he won’t, because this is Napoleon and you. He won’t forget,” Gaby assures Illya although she tries to hide from him the doubt shining in her eyes.

***

Napoleon puts on the memory erasing headset. “So this is how a lab rat looks like.’

Wishaw grins. “Yes, a very adorable lab rat.”

Napoleon tries to ignore the teasing tone in Wishaw’s voice. He notes the wires and nodes stuck to the headset, attached to the heart monitor rate at his display.

“Is there any risk of brain damage?” he suddenly asks. Wishaw looks up from the paper in his hand.

“Change of mind?”

Napoleon shakes his head. “No. Just asking.”

“Well, technically speaking, the entire procedure is brain damage. Only similar to a night of heavy drinking. In the morning, you won’t miss a thing.”

Napoleon nods. Wishaw suddenly grips his arm.

“Now remember what I’d said, this program will focus on your inner fears, the things that you want to forget. In this case, it will make you forget your feelings for him. Once it starts, you’ll feel a shock go through you, and you’ll see perhaps a blinding light. Whatever memories you’ve had with him will flash by in your head like a train and you won’t be able to stop it. The recent ones will go first.”

Napoleon braces himself. “Yes, just please start it, Jack.”

Without further hesitation, Wishaw nods at Napoleon, starts the procedure and then Napoleon sees white. 

He sees it first. The stolen kiss he’d given Illya in that darkened alley, the punch that lands on his face, the hurtful words Illya had uttered.

_“Don’t ever do it again, Cowboy. It’s disgusting!”_

Then he sees them arguing in his apartment just before Napoleon leaves for London. He sees Illya asking him to change his mind, wanting him not to go. He sees the intensity in Illya’s eyes. How did he miss that look? He sees hurt in them. Did Illya really care about him?

Then everything else happens too fast for Napoleon to comprehend. Every subsequent event that ties his feelings to Illya during the course of their partnership flashes before his eyes. He sees them in Naples after a particularly difficult mission, sees Illya staunching a gunshot wound on his shoulder, sees the fear in Illya as he holds him.

Then he sees them in Zurich, a reconnaissance work in the snow. Illya grumbling of the cold even more so than Napoleon. He sees himself warming Illya up in a tight embrace, despite the Russian's persistent protest. He sees him in Paris, New York, Rio. Sees them together in a bunker trying to hide from bad guys like they normally do. Illya putting a comforting arm around him as he grimaces in pain. Illya muttering comforting words.

He sees them in Istanbul, Illya having ice cream on a hot summer day with that ridiculous flat hat on him, Gaby laughing at the both of them as they walk in the summer heat and Napoleon senses that's the first time when he truly felt he was in love with his partner.

God, how much does he love Illya? And he wants to get rid of these memories?

As the realisation happens, Napoleon regrets his decision and desperately tries to fight the procedure but is powerless. 

Then he sees Rome. The beginning of it all. He sees them in that room, how Illya reacted when he gave him his father’s watch.

_“Please let me keep this memory, just this one.”_

He attempts to foil it, he wants to keep Rome in the recesses of his mind but fails. There are tears in his eyes. 

In the end, he succumbs to everything and blanks out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Threw some fantasy element into the fic. The procedure done is based on the film 'Eternal Sunshine of The Spotless Mind'. Yeah, it may not make sense, but just bare with me on this story. XD


	3. Chapter 3

Saying Illya is upset about the news he’s heard regarding Napoleon is probably an understatement. He has turned their hotel suite upside down when he’d flipped and smashed the furniture to pieces, flying splinters and shards of broken glass all over the carpeted floor. The aftermath of his rage looked like a grand tornado had hit the room, destroying everything in its wake. And while it happened, Gaby could only watch everything in horror.

Waverly’s intention to help Napoleon work around his problem has now turned somewhat disastrous. A phone call from their superior this morning, informing them of the procedure he had undergone and warning them that Napoleon might not be able to recall certain details in his life wasn’t handled very well by Illya. The catastrophe laid out in front of Gaby’s eyes is the result.

“Why—why did they even suggest it to him?” Illya asks, the despair in his voice so strong Gaby wishes she’d never mentioned a word about Napoleon’s feelings to Illya. Perhaps he would have taken the news better. _Perhaps._

“Illya,” she begins, starts to take a few tentative steps closer towards the trembling man, now slumped on the carpet with fingers and knuckles a little bloody from the damage he’d done. She wants to say a lot of things but feels no right words could comfort Illya at the moment. In the end, she settles for a comforting arm around his shoulders.

“If they knew memory suppression wouldn’t work, they should have just sent Cowboy home instead of giving him ideas about wiping out his memory.”

Hearing that, Gaby looks up into Illya’s eyes. She sees a combination of desperation and hopelessness in them and suddenly Gaby inexplicably feels angry, angry at Waverly even though she knows it hadn’t been his fault and angry at Napoleon for being a coward, for running away when he should have faced his problems like a man. Knowing she cannot afford to let her feelings get in the way and that she has to be strong for her friends, Gaby moves in front of Illya and forces him to look her in the eyes.

“Illya, Waverly has said the procedure did not wipe out his entire memory, just bits and pieces.”

“Bits and pieces you say?” Illya mutters underneath his breath, his voice rumbling both in anger and fear. “Probably he’s forgotten a lot of things.”

“No, Illya, we don’t know that. I’m sure he still remembers us.”

Illya shakes his head and at once stands on his feet. “Even if he remembers it’s not the same. And I know why he’s doing this. It’s because he wants to forget _me_. Not you. _It’s me_.”

Gaby bites her lips. There is bitter truth in Illya’s words, but she’s not going to admit it to Illya who at the moment is at the lowest Gaby’s ever seen him before.

“Illya,” she says again after a while, phrases her words carefully so Illya will be able to understand what she’s trying to tell him. She goes to stand beside him once again. “We’re leaving Bangkok tonight and when we see Solo again, we’ll have to try and jog his memory the best we can, so that he’ll remember whatever it is that he’s forgotten. That’s the only way, Illya. You can’t be like this if you want him back."

Illya can only stare at her, caught by the knowledge that she’s right, Gaby is always right when it comes to them. Her gaze and hold on him are firm and resolute, and in the end Illya could only nod and whisper, his voice so low, Gaby had to strain her ears to catch his words. 

“Of course I want him back. And I will do everything to get him back.”

 

***

 

_I’m not that. It’s only Illya._

Napoleon wakes up with a start, his body drenched in sweat. He blinks a couple of times, wonders for a moment where he was, later realising he’s in his room. There’s a strange sensation in his head. He feels a little bit confused, dazed, like he can’t recall what had happened to him during the last few days. And what was that dream he had about Illya? Napoleon can’t quite figure it out. He remembers seeing Illya in a glass maze, the Russian calling out to him, but he can’t understand what he’s trying to tell him. In the dream, he also sees Agent Wishaw walking beside him as he frantically tries to convince the agent over and over again.

_I’m not that. It’s only Illya. Only Illya._

What does it mean when he’d said that?

With a slight groan, Napoleon decides to shake the dream off. He turns to his side before sitting up at the edge of his bed. His feet touches the carpeted floor of his bedroom and looks down as he wriggles his toes. He focuses on the movements of his feet, clenches and unclenches his hands in fists, evens out his breathing. He sits there for a moment and stares blankly at his window, blinking at the sun rays filtering through his room. Even after a while he still can’t remember what he’d done the night before. Had he been drinking last night? What about the few days before he’d returned from London? He figures this must be one of the worst hangovers he’s had in a while. Not wanting to dwell on the fact any longer, he decides to have his shower. Waverly might not be too happy if he’s late meeting him that morning.

After getting ready and having a quick breakfast, consisting of a mug of coffee and a piece of burnt toast, Napoleon arrives at UNCLE’s headquarters approximately an hour later. Without explanation, he feels a sudden rush of nerves run through his body as he stands in front of the complex. He contemplates for a moment, not understanding why he’s feeling apprehensive. What awaits him inside that’s making him afraid all of a sudden? 

He shakes his head, tells himself to calm down. After a long hesitation at the entrance door, which catches a few strange glances from people getting in and out of the building, Napoleon finally strides inside despite the nerves still oddly irritating him at the back of his mind.

 

***

 

When Agent Wishaw had called him a day earlier, explaining the procedure Napoleon had opted for instead of the memory suppression program, Waverly immediately regrets sending Napoleon to London. He’s quick to warn Illya and Gaby about Napoleon’s condition, although the Russian’s shout in the phone was an indication he had taken the news badly. 

Leaning back in his chair, Waverly wonders if he’s made a grave mistake. He’d only wanted to help Napoleon, wanted to help his best agent, wanted to keep him and his team together, and now he figures he might have been too hasty in making that decision. 

“Based on Agent Solo’s story, memory suppression wouldn’t have worked on him, Sir,” Wishaw had explained through the phone.

“And what did Solo tell you?” Waverly had asked, but he’d got nothing out of Wishaw as the agent had declined to share something he’d sworn to secrecy. 

“I can’t disclose that, Sir, unfortunately.”

“So what is Solo’s condition right now?” he’d continued grilling Wishaw.

“He’s completed the procedure and I got someone to escort Agent Solo back to his apartment yesterday. He’s doing fine, Sir. Basically, he still remembers everything, other than certain aspects of his life that had been wiped out during the procedure.”

“Permanently wiped out?” he’d asked. 

“So far we haven’t had cases of patients having relapses of their old memories after undergoing this procedure. But if the memory is jogged back accordingly, a relapse could happen. And it also depends on how much Agent Solo wants to forget, or to remember.”

The entire conversation with Wishaw has got Waverly thinking about Napoleon’s initial request for a transfer. And whatever problems he’s having with either of his partners must have been severe enough for him opting to go for such a drastic measure. 

A sudden knock on his door startles him from his thoughts and when he sees the devil himself standing by his door, he quickly gestures for him to enter. He gives him a small smile as Napoleon takes a seat before him.

“Agent Solo, good morning.”

“Good morning, Sir,” Napoleon replies and in his eyes Waverly sees none of that troubled look which had been apparent in him a couple of weeks back. Perhaps the procedure had indeed helped him one way or another.

“How are you feeling, agent?” he asks, hopeful for a positive answer.

“I’m feeling okay, quite good actually.”

“That’s good to know,” Waverly says.

Napoleon then starts to talk about his time in London and the older man quickly realises he is conjuring an entirely different scenario than what his actual reasons for being there actually were. He doesn’t mention his problem, doesn’t even bring up the program he supposedly had gone through. Then, Waverly remembers Wishaw mentioning administering a drug to Napoleon, in order to help him forget the entire process. 

It’s tampered with his mind, Waverly thinks quietly to himself. 

“Their facility is probably three times bigger than UNCLE’s and we can really learn a lot from the mind research they’re currently doing there. Will help with our agents suffering from PTSD.”

Waverly only nods at Napoleon’s story. He suddenly feels a whole lot guilty at what he’s done. 

“Solo, I’m very happy with your findings, perhaps later you can complete the paperwork on this for us?” Waverly says, anxious to change the subject. 

“Of course, Sir. I will do that.”

Then Napoleon says something that immediately captures Waverly’s attention. “Where’s Teller and Kuryakin? I haven’t seen them all this morning.”

Waverly suddenly wonders if he’s ready to meet his partners once again. If he’s talking about them in good light than perhaps there is really nothing he should be worried about. He rubs his hands together in a hopeful stance. 

“Agents Kuryakin and Teller are on their way home from Bangkok. They should report here tomorrow. I'll brief you on a mission I've waiting for the three of you once everyone's here."

“That’s great to know,” Napoleon answers, completely oblivious to the heartbreak that will be in store for both Illya and him.

 

***

 

“Illya, we shouldn’t be here! It's been a long flight. We should go home, get some rest. You’re obviously not using your brain to think, Illya! You can’t meet him like this, please!” Gaby argues and pleads as she tries to keep up with Illya’s long strides. They’re heading up the stairs towards Napoleon’s apartment, Illya climbing two or three steps at a time much to Gaby’s irritation.

“Illya Kuryakin, are you listening to me?”

Illya stops for a moment and turns to face Gaby who’s standing a couple of steps below him. He shakes his head at her.

“I’m sorry, but I need to see Cowboy. This I cannot wait until tomorrow. I need to know how he is, what’s he forgotten,” he says before continuing up the stairs again. Gaby groans out loud, frustrated at herself because she's not able to convince the hard-headed Russian. 

“Illya! No, wait!” she shouts and runs up as fast as she could when she sees Illya's fast disappearing from her sight. 

All the way from the airport, Gaby had tried hard convincing him that going to Napoleon’s apartment in the middle of the night was a very, very bad idea, but Illya would not listen, had told her he could do this on his own without her help, and in the end, despite telling herself she really didn’t have to, Gaby had no option but to follow her troubled partner. Once they reached Napoleon’s floor, Illya quickly dumps their luggage on the ground and as he reaches his hand out to knock on the door, Gaby makes a quick grab at Illya’s wrist, stopping him from doing so. 

“Gaby, _please_ ,” Illya says, begs her to let his hand go. He doesn’t turn to face her, only stares ahead at Napoleon’s door.

“Illya, listen to me,” Gaby tries again, not wanting to give up. She then expertly wriggles herself in between the door and Illya. The frown on his face just grows deeper at Gaby’s tireless effort trying to stop him.

“Step away,” Illya mutters lowly like a threat but Gaby doesn’t move an inch. 

“Are you going to hit me if I don’t? Throw me down the stairs?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, I will not do that!” Illya hisses. 

“So you do know what being ridiculous actually is?” Gaby glares at him, hands on hips. Illya lets out a frustrated sigh in return. Winning this argument with Gaby is not going to be easy. If it was anyone else, he would have likely thrown her down the stairs just like Gaby had suggested. 

“What are you going to say to him when he sees you? Don’t you think he's going to find it weird that we’re here during this odd hour, straight off the airport no less? What reason shall we give him when he starts asking questions?”

“I will think of something,” Illya replies stubbornly. 

Dealing with Illya at the moment frustrates the hell out of Gaby, but she can’t give up now. She has to put things straight before it gets even worse. Pushing him slightly back so she could look him properly in the eye, Gaby continues to try and put some sense in Illya’s head.

“Illya, listen to me. You might not like what you’ll find when that door opens.”

Illya closes his eyes, hands clenched in tight fists at his sides hearing Gaby's rationale. He slowly takes in a deep breath and mutters, “I’ll take my chance.”

***

 

It’s eleven thirty at night. When Napoleon hears the knock on his door, he's on his way back to his room after getting a glass of water from the kitchen. No, he knows he’s not expecting any company at that time of the hour. With that thought in mind, he makes a dash into his room, grabs his gun before moving slowly towards the door. The knock grows persistent and he could hear voices outside, like arguments. Taking a peek through the peephole, he’s surprised to see that it’s Illya and Gaby standing at the other side of the room. He immediately draws down his weapon.

“Well, hello there,” Napoleon says with a slight tilt of his head after opening the door. “This is rather unexpected?”

He eyes Gaby and Illya and notices straight away the obvious anxious looks on his partners’ faces. They remain stock still, unmoving, not saying a word even after he had emerged from the door and he begins to think something must be terribly wrong for them to be acting that way. When he sees the sprawled luggage on the floor, he remembers what Waverly had told him earlier that morning. 

“Did you both just come from the airport?” he asks and Gaby nods before breaking their silence.

“Yes we did, and we wanted to see whether you’re already back from London and I guess hey, you are indeed back!”

Illya cringes at Gaby’s lame attempt of an excuse but doesn’t think he could do any better. His eyes are fixed on Napoleon, his heart beating wildly in his chest as he tries to take in all the information that has been fed to him this last couple of days. Gaby's revelation of Napoleon's feelings towards him, his admission of his own feelings towards Napoleon and the realisation that his partner might not even remember a single shred of what had happened before between them makes Illya just want to reach out and hold him. He wants to ask so many questions, wants to say a lot of unsaid things but in the end he doesn’t trust himself enough to say anything. 

Not wanting for things to be more awkward than it already is, and sensing Illya might not have the courage to do so, Gaby goes in to give Napoleon a hug, which he promptly returns. After a while, she then pulls back and kisses his cheek.

“We’ve missed you in Bangkok.”

“Yes, I guess I’ve missed you too.”

After that, there’s awkward silence once again and Napoleon immediately feels like something is wrong with the picture he’s seeing at the moment. He feels like he’s missing something he can’t quite lay a finger on. He tries to think and grimaces for a moment when nothing comes to mind. Illya is quick to notice his change in demeanour.

“Are you all right, Cowboy?” he quickly asks, moves a little bit closer towards the American but then Napoleon starts to give him a strange look. 

“Cowboy?” Napoleon says and the questioning look on his face tells Illya everything he doesn’t want to know. Illya quickly rephrases his question, ignoring the pain flaring in his heart. 

“I asked whether you’re all right.”

Napoleon looks down at his feet like he’s uncertain of something. He wants to ask Illya again why he’d called him Cowboy but in the end he just says, “I’m fine.”

Illya seems to struggle for a moment. He almost doubles over, holding his midriff in pain and Gaby panics knowing Napoleon will suspect something is wrong.

“We’re sorry to disturb you, Solo. We shouldn’t even be here,” she says, putting a supporting hand behind Illya’s back and on his shoulder, tries her best to calm him and hope Napoleon doesn’t see too much into Illya’s strange behaviour.

“Is he all right, Gaby?” he asks. 

The question, directed at Gaby instead of Illya, devoid of any real emotion, like someone asking a stranger whether the other is okay, makes it even worse for Illya. His head snaps up, looks at Napoleon with hurt eyes like he’d just uttered something poisonous. 

“Do you even remember who I am?” Illya asks suddenly, catching Napoleon by surprise at his question.

“What kind of a question is that? Of course I remember you.”

Illya lets go of Gaby’s hold, steps closer towards Napoleon.

“Then who am I?” 

"Illya, please, not now," Gaby pleads, horrified that Illya's bringing the matter up now but Illya only ignores her. "Who am I?" he asks Napoleon again. 

“You’re Illya.”

“Who am I to you?”

“What?” Napoleon asks, genuinely getting confused at Illya's incessant questions.

“Just answer the question, Solo," Illya says like an order, narrowing his eyes at the American. 

Napoleon starts to back away from Illya's advancing move and shoots a glance at Gaby. She could only give him a sympathetic look in return.

“Just answer him, please?” she says, and Napoleon immediately returns his attention on Illya.

“You’re my partner," he answers. Illya shuts his eyes for a second. He could feel the hollowness in Napoleon's answer and can't help a wry smile forming on his lips.

“Where and how did we meet?”

“I don’t see the need for all this questions, Illya,” Napoleon argues, clearly getting increasingly frustrated at Illya's games. But Illya would not give up and continues to pressure him relentlessly. 

“Just answer me, Cowboy.”

“Why do you keep calling me that?!” Napoleon suddenly raises his voice. Illya cast his eyes down.

“Because you’re Cowboy. I’ve always called you that, don’t you remember?”

Napoleon staggers back inside his apartment and both Illya and Gaby quickly rush in together, their luggage outside totally forgotten.

“Cowboy," Illya tries again slowly, but Napoleon flinches away when he tries to grab hold of his arm.

“Stop calling me that.”

“Don’t you remember?” Illya asks, panic starting to build up in him. His heart sinks when he sees Napoleon shaking his head. Illya concludes he has to try another way to make him remember.

Do you remember what you always call me?”

“What? Illya, I call you Illya," Napoleon says. It's Illya's turn now to shake his head.

“My nickname.”

“Sorry, I don’t—I don’t have a nickname for you," Napoleon stammers. 

“You do!" he shouts. " _You do_ ," he whispers. "Just, please, try to remember.”

“Illya, please, let’s just go. This is not the time—” Gaby tries to intervene again. She tugs at his arm and her efforts are met with an angry scowl from the Russian.

“No, Gaby, he has to tell me!”

“I’m really sorry, Illya. I don’t remember.”

Hearing that Illya gives a start and glanced sharply back at Napoleon. “Why did you do this? Why do you want to forget?” he hisses. 

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Napoleon exclaims, his own anger now rising. 

“You went to London to forget! We had a fight. You kissed me, and I hit you. You remember that?” 

“No! What, what is this? Gaby? What’s he talking about?” 

Napoleon's behaviour, turning to Gaby for answers when he's right there in front of him makes Illya angry. He grabs his hand, forces Napoleon to look at him instead. 

“Stop asking Gaby! I’m here in front of you. _Ask me!_ ”

“Well, what do you want me to ask you?” Napoleon asks. Despite Illya's bruising grip on his wrist, he doesn't try to pull away. Realising he's been a bit too aggressive, Illya pulls back at once. He's mortified at what he's done, drops his gaze and starts to say something he should have said that could have prevented the entire mess from happening in the first place.

“Solo. _Napoleon_ , I’m sorry I hit you. I was wrong. And I didn't mean a thing I'd said to you.”

“But Illya, I don’t understand what you’re talking about.”

When Napoleon continues to be clueless, Illya's temper flares up again.

“You kissed me, in Frankfurt, don't you remember? Our mission. We’re hiding from bad guys, I pulled you into an alleyway and then you kissed me. And we got into a fight. You remember this?”

Napoleon shakes his head and out of frustration, Illya punches the wall behind the American, almost making him jump. 

“Please, tell me you remember something?!” Illya yells, agonises that he's getting nothing from Napoleon so far.

“Illya! You’re not helping him!” Gaby, who has been silent for a while, pulls his hand back, but Illya twists away from her hold. 

"Illya," Napoleon calls out to the Russian. Despite his angry outburst, Napoleon strangely remains calm. 

“Illya, I remember Frankfurt, but I don’t remember kissing you. And I don’t remember you hitting me, I don’t remember any arguments. I don’t remember you calling me Cowboy. I’m sorry, Illya. I'm really sorry.”

“Why did you go to London?” Illya starts again, not wanting to back down from his argument. "Why?"

“What?”

“Why did you go to London?” he repeats his question. 

“UNCLE asked me to check on a memory suppression program being run by MI6," Napoleon answers as truthfully as he can remember, but his reply only manages to incense Illya further.

“A memory suppression program which you participated in! To get your memory wiped. You wanted to forget me after our argument!”

“No," Napoleon murmurs. He shakes his head as if not wanting to hear anything more from Illya. Gaby sees the dejected look in Illya's face and feels she should step in. She quickly moves in front of Napoleon and grabs his arms in a firm grip. 

“Solo, you’ve feelings for Illya, remember? You told me this,” Gaby interjects and Napoleon shakes his head, not wanting to believe such an absurd thought coming from Gaby.

“Not you too—no. I don't believe this. Look, I think the both of you should leave, please.”

He breaks away from Gaby, starts to make for the door. 

"No!" Illya shouts, but Napoleon stays firm with his decision. He lets out a pleading look, making Illya's heart break even further. " _Please leave_."

“You don’t remember at all, do you?” 

Illya doesn’t want to give up, not yet. He has to try, damn he’s going to make Napoleon remember one way or the other. Napoleon, on the other hand, is trying hard to understand what Illya is trying to tell him.

“This is just too much,” he says softly.

Gaby, who has now slumped on the sofa watching both men trying to sort out the incredible mess between them, can’t quite fight the tears falling down her cheeks. She wants so much to help but is helpless. 

“Do you remember Rome, Solo? Do you remember our first mission with the Vinciguerras?” Illya starts again after a while.

“Yes, of course. That’s when we first met Gaby and Waverly.”

"We met Gaby in Berlin," Illya corrects him. Napoleon shakes his head, wonders why he's confusing something as important as that.

“What else?” Illya asks again and then Napoleon, to his surprise and horror, realises he cannot remember the details of their first mission together. 

“I can’t remember,” he whispers.

“Do you remember saving me from water? Do you remember me saving you from Rudi? Do you remember returning my father’s watch?”

Napoleon shakes his head to all the questions Illya’s bombarding him with. And Illya, he’s just taken aback at how Napoleon has no recollection whatsoever at how everything had started between them. He never thought it’ll be this difficult, this heart wrenching.

“Illya, I’m sorry, but I don’t remember any of that,” Napoleon says sadly. 

“Solo, we were supposed to kill each other in that room in Rome after we completed the mission. And instead of shooting me, you returned my father’s watch, do you remember that?”

Napoleon tears his gaze away from the intensity of Illya's stare, not able to handle what's looking like pure sadness in his eyes. He bites his lip, rubs at his temples when everything begins to get too much for him to comprehend.

"Cowboy, look at me."

Illya has stepped closer to Napoleon and something, a braveness in which he doesn’t know he possesses, makes him bring both his hands against Napoleon’s cheeks. He holds his face in a firm grip, looks deeply into his eyes, willing Napoleon to see the bond they have between them. Napoleon doesn’t respond to Illya’s touch but he’s staring back as well, with the exact same intensity and that makes Illya shiver. He knows Napoleon can remember, he knows it in his bones, he just needs to reach deep into the recesses of his memory and wrench it out. 

“Do you remember it now, Cowboy?”

“Illya, you’re making this difficult for me," Napoleon whimpers.

“Please, Cowboy, I know you can, try harder," Illya pleads, but Napoleon grabs at his hands and pulls it off his face. He takes a step back. He wants to understand, tries hard to think what Illya is trying to tell him but everything seems to get more complicated the harder he tries. 

“I don’t understand what I’m trying to remember, Illya. What is it? Just tell me.”

“You’ve forgotten your feelings, Cowboy, your feelings.”

Illya moves in closer again, this time much closer until they are separated by mere inches. If he follows his heart, he would’ve leaned in and kissed him hard and let his lips do the explaining but he worries it might scare Napoleon away. Using all of his resolve not to give in, Illya tries again carefully.

“Cowboy, your feelings, do you remember?”

“But what do you mean? What feelings?” Napoleon exhales sharply and swallows. Illya is trying to cup his face again, but Napoleon quickly moves away, avoiding his touch. More desperation begins to build on the Russian’s face. He has to go in for the kill. It’s now or never. 

“Feelings, Solo. Your feelings, for me,” he blurts out 

“That’s crazy, I don’t have feelings for you," Napoleon replies and Illya can't fight back a sharp intake of breath at hearing his reply.

“Illya, we have to go, now.”

It's Gaby again, Illya's voice of reason, trying to tell him it's a hopeless cause. There's no point in forcing Napoleon to remember, not at this time, but then Illya wants to try his luck one more time. He turns to Gaby for help.

“Gaby tell him, please?” Illya suddenly turns towards her. He’s pleading. “Please? Tell him what you told me."

Before Gaby could say anything, Napoleon cuts her off. “You’re both crazy. Really, you should leave. Now.”

Panic flashes across Ilya’s face at the realisation of what Napoleon is saying. He could not let it end just like that. 

“No, Solo, please…wait,” he says and with double quick movement, he grabs both his shoulders and pins him against the wall behind him. Napoleon is too stunned to move when Illya leans in purposely nearer, their chests now touching. His hands on his shoulders are emanating heat that makes a tremor run up and down his spine him but at that moment, all Napoleon could think of is how close Illya’s lips are on his. And he couldn’t stop him when his lips slowly descend on his.

“You kissed me that night. Tell me, you’ve not forgotten _this_ ,” Illya whispers as he let his lips brush on Napoleon’s clenched ones, gently poking his tongue to let him in. A soft groan escapes Napoleon and Illya takes the opportunity to slide his tongue in and captures Napoleon’s with his. For a split second, Napoleon lets the intoxicating moment steal his breath away but it ends just as soon as it had started.

“No! Get off, Illya,” he exclaims and pushes Illya off his body. 

“Cowboy,” Illya whispers with so much disappointment in his heart. 

Napoleon takes a few steps back. "Please, Illya, just go."

“Illya,” Gaby mutters from behind him, gently tugs at his arm. “Come on.”

Within a matter of seconds, Illya feels everything, his hope, his heart, his love he never knew he had for Napoleon, crumble to pieces. He curses at his own stupidity, but there’s nothing else he could do. With a dejected look, he leaves Napoleon standing there wide-eyed, trembling in shock as he makes his way out of the American’s apartment with Gaby in tow. Before he closes the door, he gives Napoleon one last despairing look, mutters, “All I ask is please, just try to remember, Solo.”

Then he closes the door behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Illya's characterization is rather desperate in this chapter, reacts hastily after he finds out what Napoleon has opted for. 
> 
> And I do apologize if this chapter is a bit off. I've found it extremely difficult, but I hope you'll give it a go. 
> 
> Thanks again for all the lovely comments, everyone. :)


	4. Chapter 4

When Gaby had climbed out of the plane back at the airport with Illya, the look of desperation on his face at wanting to get to Napoleon told her that if she didn’t do anything to help them out, she would have failed them as a friend. And she cares for them a little too much to let that happen. That's when she realised what she's dealing with needed Waverly's divine intervention.

Before she had come to the conclusion that their superior must be let aware of the problem they are facing, she had tried to consider all other options but found herself at a dead end. After having an internal battle with herself, Gaby finally decides she could not wait until morning to let Waverly know.

Skating quickly across her room, she lifts her telephone receiver and starts dialling the number she has memorised by heart. As she waits for Waverly to answer her call, her hesitation returned, knowing the last time she had meddled into Illya and Napoleon’s affair, the outcome had not turned out as favourably as she had hoped it would. But this time, somehow, she feels as if she has no choice. Her decision may seem risky because she is about to disclose something to Waverly that could possibly incriminate both Illya and Napoleon if he decides to report them, but she trusts him enough to be able to want to do this. She trusts him enough because she could not bear watch her boys go through what she had seen earlier again. It is too painful and too draining. All she wants is for everything to turn out all right for them in the end.

“Hello?”

Waverly’s voice fleets through the line and Gaby takes in a deep breath before answering him.

“Alexander, I know this is a bad time for me to call you but I really, really need a huge favour from you. And you know me, I wouldn’t do this if it’s not urgent.”

Waverly blinks repeatedly, still in a daze. He checks the time on the clock next to his bedside and cannot believe when it shows two thirty in the morning. 

“Who—who is this?” he asks, his voice still groggy from sleep.

“It’s me, Gabrielle, can’t you tell?” she exclaims in exasperation. 

Hearing her agitated voice, Waverly sits up at once against the headboard of his bed. He rubs one hand on his face and presses the receiver harder against his ear. What could possibly have happened for her to call him at that ungodly hour?

“Gaby? Where are you? Are you and Kuryakin in some kind of trouble?” 

Gaby rolls her eyes. “No, we’re fine. We arrived hours ago.”

There is a mumbled groan at the other end. “Then you better come up with a really good reason why we’re having this conversation now.”

For a split second, she hesitates again, wonders if she is doing the right thing. 

“Gaby? You’re not helping me with this silence. Tell me what the matter is.”

Waverly’s urgent questioning voice sounds sincere enough. Gaby knows there is no point in waiting any longer. She has to let him know.

“Alex, I have an absurd amount of trust in you and I want you to know that I’m taking a huge risk here at what I’m about to tell you but please, let me just explain everything first before you say or ask me anything at all.”

Gaby hears Waverly hum in response as if contemplating his answer. Her heart starts to pound. She hopes she has not overstepped the boundary of their relationship by asking him to hear her out but what he says next soothes her fears. 

“All right, Miss Teller, I’m all ears. What is this all about, really?” he asks and by the time Gaby has finished her entire story, all his questions pertaining Napoleon’s queer behaviour in wanting the transfer and his willingness to join the memory suppression program as he had suggested, were answered. He starts to piece everything together and quickly formulates what he has to do next.

“You know, I can offer some assistance, but there’s no guarantee that things will be as they once were.”

“I understand,” Gaby sighs into the phone but his answer is good enough for her and that is all she wants to hear. “Thank you, Alex.”

And later, as she lies on her bed thinking of her conversation with Waverly, Gaby knows it had been the right thing to do. 

 

***

 

Napoleon had woken up to that dream again, that dream where he found himself lost, walking aimlessly through a glass maze, trying to escape that constricted space, grappling in semi-darkness. And then there was Illya banging on the other side of the maze walls which separated him from Napoleon, trying to tell him something he couldn’t understand. His face was both frantic and sad. And then Napoleon heard himself saying, _‘I’m not them, it’s only Illya’_ over and over again.

As he looks at himself in the mirror, Napoleon feels like he is going crazy. He rubs his face vigorously and lets out an agonising groan. What Illya had told him last night has stirred something in him, something that has utterly confused him. And if he is being honest to himself, it has left him downright scared. Because no matter how hard he tries, he cannot get the Russian out of his mind. And the kiss. It had been brief and short, but it was all he could think about after Illya and Gaby had left. The feeling of Illya’s body pressed up against him, the feel of those lips on his. At the back of his mind, he had screamed at how wrong the kiss had been when it had happened but at the same time it had felt so damn right.

He has a briefing with Waverly and the team in a couple of hours and he is left unsure how he would take seeing Illya again that morning. Napoleon just needs to prepare for the worst. 

 

***

 

Only a couple of weeks after meeting Napoleon in Berlin, where they had been unceremoniously partnered together, Illya understood their partnership, relationship, or whatever one wants to call it, would never revolve around the words easy and simple. And just as he had expected, the American would go on to be the most infuriating, insufferable, innately frustrating man Illya had ever had the pleasure of knowing. They would argue and bicker over the smallest things, sometimes Illya wonders whether Napoleon does it on purpose, just so he could irritate the living daylights out of him. But as time goes by, Napoleon, much to Illya’s horror and surprise, had managed to worm his way into his heart. And no matter how hard he tries, he couldn’t deny that familiar feeling inside of him whenever Napoleon gets too close, and he knows he could never let go of Napoleon after the realisation had hit him hard.

Every time he sees those eyes, that smile, it makes his heart ache. All the while Illya had been good, had kept his dangerous, horrendous feelings for Napoleon to himself, but now he is in danger of losing him even before he had the chance to completely grasp the knowledge that all the while, Napoleon too have had feelings for him.

What makes matters even worst is everything that is happening at the moment is out of his hands. Everything that will and can ever happen between them is up to Napoleon and his mind, and Illya wishes he could turn back time, wishes he could go back to that fateful night in Frankfurt and correct the horrible mistake he had made.

When Napoleon had kissed him that night, Illya was furious. He figured Napoleon was toying with him like he always did, treating everything like it was a joke. In Illya’s mind, there were other ways to distract their assailants but Napoleon had resorted to something as preposterous as kissing. The eventual punch that landed on Napoleon’s cheek had been an instant reaction and the scathing words that had come out of his mouth had been his defence mechanism working, to shield him from the hurt that would come after. But the way Napoleon had reacted afterwards had stunned Illya and when he continued to ignore him after that had made him feel bad and it got even worst when Gaby had revealed Napoleon was going for that memory suppression program. It instantly hit Illya the damage he had done. But it had been too late for him to change Napoleon’s stubborn mind and now he is suffering from the consequences of his actions. 

As he sits there in front of Waverly, with Gaby at his side, he frets, waiting for Napoleon to enter the room. Will his emotion betray the stoic look he is putting on at the moment? Will Waverly see right through him and what will Napoleon say after the dramatic confrontation they had last night? Will he even want to work with him again after his stunning confession, something he had never imagined he would do if it had not been for Gaby dropping that bombshell on him and his own stupid mistake? The questions swirling in his head would not go away, not until Napoleon could provide the answers. But he is still absent and Illya is unsure whether he would be able to wait any longer.

When the door opens seconds later, and Napoleon finally makes his way beside the empty chair next to him, Illya cannot help but stare at the man who is wearing the exact stoic look as Illya’s. He waits for Napoleon to acknowledge him, just a look, a flicker of his eyes towards his direction, but it never comes. Illya’s heart sinks a little. 

“Gentlemen and lady. It’s good to have all the three of you back here again. It’s been a while,” Waverly starts.

The two of them nod at once at the older man, but Gaby only smiles knowingly at him. She is anxious to hear what he has got to offer after what she had revealed to him last night. 

“First off, good job Teller and Kuryakin on your fairly successful assignment in Bangkok. Although the bill for your hotel suite had surmounted to an enormous amount, I must say.”

Gaby opens her mouth at once to defend why that is so, but Waverly only waves a dismissive hand at her. “I don’t want to dwell on that, let’s just get down to the next mission, shall we?”

Gaby mumbles something unintelligent, Illya frowns hearing that, and Napoleon just gives a disinterested shrug.

“So where are we off to next?” he asks, breaking his silence, breaking out of his stoic front. Hearing his voice, distant and closed off, Illya feels the need to reach out and grab him in an endless hug. He glances his way whenever he could, but Napoleon’s attention stays firmly fixed on Waverly much to Illya’s frustration. 

“You will need to go to where you boys had started off.”

That from Waverly garners Illya’s attention and he gives him a puzzled look. “Where?” he asks. He is not too certain he will like Waverly’s answer.

“Rome.”

Acting self conscious than he normally does, not wanting Waverly’s eyes on him for too long, Illya quickly grabs the folder file the older man has placed before them. He flips it open and scowls at the word Vinciguerra spelled out in bold letters on the paper in his hand. 

“Vinciguerra? I thought they are finished. Why are we still investigating their business?”

“Two of Vinciguerra’s former senior executives at the company, a Mr. Dino Aurelio and Roberto Nivola have revived their business again, getting most of their funding from some of the more notorious Italian mob. We’ve learned that they’ve been operating for the past four months. Our intel has been closely monitoring them and so far have not found any suspicious activity.”

“So why are we going there again?” 

It’s Napoleon’s turn to ask. There is clear doubt in his voice as if questioning Waverly’s motive in wanting to send them back to that shipyard.

“Previously we know the Vinciguerras have worked with former Nazis in hiding, and we’ve come to believe Aurelio and Nivola are continuing that tradition. As part of the denazification program that’s currently underway, the intelligence community believes a courier will come to meet Mr. Aurelio with a list of these contacts and their secret dealings. Your job, Solo is to intercept this from happening. Get the list for us. Kuryakin will be your backup.”

Napoleon turns to look at Illya to find the Russian’s eyes already on him. He looks away immediately. 

“When is this transaction happening?” he then asks Waverly. 

“We believe the courier will arrive at Rome’s Termini train station this coming Friday at 1300 hours. And this is the photograph of the man you will need to mark.”

Napoleon takes the picture off Waverly’s hand, raises an eyebrow at him. “He’s just a kid.”

“Then it should be easier for you to get that list from him,” Waverly says.

“What about Gaby?”

During the entire conversation, it seems like they had forgotten her presence in the room but Gaby seems to look perfectly calm, despite the lack of her name being mentioned. 

“Miss Teller is needed back here to help me with some important paperwork but could come into your assistance if deemed necessary.”

Gaby lets out a slight cough. “More paperwork? Splendid.”

Napoleon cannot help but grin and gives Gaby a little thumbs up. “You’re good at that,” he teases. But Illya, who is sandwiched between his two partners, only frowns. 

“Just me and Solo on this?” he asks, his jaw clenching slightly. 

“Yes, would that be a problem, Kuryakin?”

Illya shakes his head, mutters a ‘no’ and then Waverly turns his attention on Napoleon. He sees the American shift in his seat. His decision to employ extreme methods than he normally would do to bring his two agents together may backfire on him once again, but this time he is not hasty, he has put thought into it and he hopes, believes it will work. 

“Agent Solo, you are all right with this arrangement?” 

Waverly’s eyes dart between Illya and Napoleon as he waits for Napoleon’s answer. 

“Yes, I’m fine with it,” Napoleon finally says, his voice calm and collected. If he is uncomfortable at the idea of just the two of them in Rome without Gaby, then he is doing a very good job at hiding it, Illya thinks. 

“Then it’s settled. You both will fly out there tomorrow evening. Good luck, gentlemen.”

After handing them the mission dossiers, the two agents immediately stand at once, thanked Waverly and Napoleon is the quicker of the two to leave the room. Before he makes his way out of the room as well, Illya throws a glance at Gaby who could only give him an encouraging smile, as if saying, _‘You can do this, Illya. You can get him back.'_

And despite the obvious nerves running through his body, Illya is determined to prove Gaby right. 

 

***

 

After Illya and Napoleon had left, Gaby decides to stick around Waverly’s office, wants to question her superior’s motive. She is feeling a little apprehensive at his idea. 

“Is it right to send just the both of them to Rome? Without any supervision?”

“For heaven’s sake, they are adults, Gaby. And this isn’t the first time they are off on a mission alone together.”

“But that was before this mess,” Gaby argues. If only Waverly had seen how broken Illya had behaved after they had left Napoleon’s apartment, he would understand her worry. She suspects Napoleon had not fared too well either.

“You think this will help them?” 

Waverly draws out a sigh. When he had come out with the idea to send the boys to Rome, he was certain Gaby would understand his decision. He had not expected her to question his methods, however.

“Miss Teller?”

Gaby looks up at Waverly. She knows she is asking too much of him, but she can’t help herself. 

“I worry about them.”

“Gaby, you must know this is the best I can do. I wanted to have the three of you on another assignment in Dublin but after your phone call last night, I made a few arrangements so Solo and Kuryakin could go and entertain Rome instead. And don’t worry. It’s a legit mission. I just took you out of the equation,” Waverly explains.

“You hope Solo being there could jog his memory back,” Gaby says. It wasn’t a question, more of a statement, and Waverly nods. But he is quick to remind her of his words.

“Like I said, I could offer assistance, but there is no guarantee or promise that things would turn out the way they were. We’ll just have to hope for the best.”

Knowing Waverly is right, Gaby can’t disagree any further. She just hopes they are not making a grave mistake. 

 

***

 

Illya is startled when he finds Napoleon sitting behind his desk as soon as he enters their office. He never expected to find him there after he had disappeared following their briefing with Waverly. He figures he would try to avoid him like he’d done all morning, but he’s wrong. Now Napoleon is there in front of him and Illya knows a confrontation is imminent. His hand grips the doorknob, unsure whether he should close the door behind him or flee. But when he remembers what he had told Gaby, that he would do anything to get him back, Illya decides against running. 

Napoleon, who was busy fiddling with the pen in his hand before Illya had turned up, looks up and acknowledges Illya’s presence with a little nod. He opens his mouth, like he wants to say something but closes it soon enough. Somehow, words are failing both men at the moment. Realising how ridiculously awkward things are starting to get between them, Illya quickly moves towards his desk. But as soon as he pulls out his chair, Napoleon breaks his silence. 

“Illya, I want to say I’m sorry—about last night.”

The last thing Illya had expected was an apology from Napoleon. He tenses for a moment, wonders what is going on inside the American’s mind. 

“It is not your fault. It was me. I should not have imposed myself on you like that. I should be saying sorry, not you,” he mutters in a single breath without actually looking at Napoleon. The truth hurts Illya, but it has to be said. He hated what he had done. He had been irrational and too forward. 

“But I shouldn’t have asked you and Gaby to leave like that. And for that I am sorry.”

For a fleeting moment, Illya thought he’d seen the Napoleon he knew, the one that remembers calling him Peril. 

“I couldn’t sleep last night. I tried to digest all the things you and Gaby had said to me, about me going to London and that memory program you were telling me.”

Illya’s emotion for the man sitting before him starts to flare up again, his gut twisting in knots, his words bringing a barrage of hope that somehow he would remember his feelings once again. 

“I tried to think, Illya. I know I went to London but I can’t remember a damn detail other than that. And I can’t remember us. I’m sorry.”

_Us._

Illya feels like he’s being stabbed the way Napoleon had uttered the word. And here he is after everything, saying he was sorry, saying he had tried his best to remember and that look, defeated and lost, just makes Illya want to scream. But he can’t. Even if he so badly wants to. In the end, he just says his own apology once again.

“It’s okay. It’s my fault because I had forced you too hard into thinking something you cannot remember. I am sorry, Cowboy.”

“There’s that Cowboy again,” Napoleon says suddenly, and there’s like laughter in his voice, but it’s broken and then there’s just a sad smile on his face. Illya bites his lips.

“I seem to use it a lot,” he murmurs.

“I suppose you do,” Napoleon smiles.

Illya wants to say a lot of other things but does not want to scare him again like he had done the night before. But when Napoleon stands from his chair, his heart starts to pound hard against his chest. He feels he could have a heart attack at any moment because the American has now come too close, hovers at the boundary of his personal space.

“Waverly’s sending us to Rome,” Napoleon mutters. He holds Illya’s gaze and asks, “Are we going to be okay with this?

Illya nods vaguely, and whispers, answers the only way he knows how. “Yes, we will be okay, Cowboy.”

Napoleon nods, as if satisfied with Illya's reply, and once he turns towards his desk, Illya breathes a sigh of relief. He only hopes he will be as confident as he had sounded when they both fly out to Rome tomorrow. 

 

***

 

They land in the Italian capital the next day and Illya has settled into his room, has put away his belongings from his suitcase when he hears a knock on his door. It is too late for him to be entertaining anybody. He was hoping he could turn in early after they had arrived at the hotel, hoping to catch up on some proper sleep which he had not had in days. But when he sees Napoleon standing there before him in the hallway, he knows sleep could take a backseat for a while.

“Solo,” he says quietly. It’s almost he is taken by surprise to see him there. “You okay?” 

“May I come in?” Napoleon asks.

Illya cannot deny him, even if his insides are screaming, cursing the fact how fate is cruelly toying with him at the moment. Instead of answering, he simply steps aside to let Napoleon in. He wants to ask his reasons for being there. They have their work cut out for tomorrow and Napoleon should be preparing instead of wandering to his room no less. 

“This room looks oddly familiar,” Napoleon says without turning to look at Illya, and before Illya could say anything to him, he adds, “That being said, so does mine.”

“That is because we had stayed here before,” Illya replies. 

Yes, somehow, Waverly had cleverly arranged the same hotel they had stayed in during their first assignment together in Rome. However, it is such bad timing for Napoleon wanting to talk about familiarities, not now when they are preparing for a mission, when the last thing they need is a distraction. But Illya is willing to take it in his stride if it means Napoleon finding his way back to him. He moves towards Napoleon and stops when he is standing right behind him.

“We don’t have to do this now,” he mutters softly and Napoleon turns, blue eyes staring at Illya.

“Honestly I do try, Illya. I want you to know that.”

“I know, Cowboy,” Illya answers. 

Although Napoleon’s honesty breaks him every little time he confesses he’s still not able to remember, Illya’s thankful. Napoleon is acknowledging there is something that he needs to find, to search, to look for, and that’s a lot better than an outright denial. At the moment, that is more than enough for Illya. 

After they'd discussed briefly on their tactics on how to approach their mark like they always do before a mission, they say their goodnights, and after Napoleon leaves the room, Illya finds himself wanting the American more than ever. He grimaces.

 

***

 

“Solo, what the hell were you thinking?!”

Illya is angry because Napoleon had let their mark escaped when he already had him in his clutches. As planned, Napoleon was supposed to intercept Aurelio’s courier but Illya watched in horror from a distance when instead of bringing the boy in, he had let him go. 

“Why did you do it?” Illya exclaims in confusion. “You had the information in your hands!”

Napoleon lets out a shuddery breath as he leans against the brick wall behind him. They are now in an alleyway between two old buildings, hiding from the city crowd, not wanting to attract any unnecessary attention their way. Illya is furious, just like he had been in Frankfurt, again because of Napoleon’s doing, this time minus the kiss and the scathing words.

“Solo? An explanation, please?” 

“He’ll be dead if he doesn't deliver that thing to Aurelio,” Napoleon says, trying to catch his breath. He looks up at Illya, hoping his partner would understand his reasoning. “He’s just a kid.”

The look on the boy’s face, as he pleaded with Napoleon to release him, sticks in Napoleon’s memory. “There’s fear in his eyes, Illya. Genuine fear. If I’d taken the file, they’d find him for certain. They’d kill him. I don’t want that to remain in my conscience.”

Illya shakes his head, annoyed that Napoleon had let his emotions get the better of him. But that’s the Napoleon he knows, that's what he would do in any circumstances and Gaby would have told him he had done the right thing. 

“Now what?” he says after a moment, after he’d let everything sink in. “We have to improvise, Cowboy.”

“We’ll just have to do it the hard way now.”

“How?” Illya asks. 

“I got some information off the boy as an exchange for me letting him go. The files should be in the shipyard. I’ll go there tomorrow night.”

“What? You’re not going to the shipyard,” Illya hisses. 

“And why not?”

“It’s too dangerous. And because that’s not in the plan.”

Napoleon’s lips immediately curl into a grin. “Aww, Illya, you’re worried about me.”

Illya's heart skips a beat. Is this the old Napoleon trying to tease him into frustration? He decides to ignore the American’s distracting smirk.

“Going to the shipyard is not in our original plan, Solo.”

“You do realise our original plan had gone bust the moment I’d let the boy go?” Napoleon adds, tries to prove his point, and Illya could only let out an exasperated grunt in reply. He knows Napoleon is right. He closes his eyes and leans his head back against the wall, mutters something nasty in Russian. Napoleon smiles at his partner.

“Don’t worry, Illya. You’ll have my back, right?”

“Waverly is not going to be happy with this,” Illya says after a moment, glares at the American before him. 

“Well, he sent us here, he will just have to trust our judgement.”

 

***

 

Later that night, Illya meets Napoleon in the bar of their hotel. 

After their mini argument, Napoleon had wanted to make it up to Illya for screwing up their plans by asking him to join him for a couple of drinks. Illya had wanted to decline, saying it’s improper. They are on a mission, but then when had that ever stopped Napoleon before? And when the American turned on his charming persuasive manner like always, Illya simply couldn't say no.

The bar isn’t overcrowded, just a handful of hotel guests lounging in their seats. Napoleon who is sitting next to him, with a glass of scotch in his hand, remains quiet. Other than their initial hellos earlier on, he hasn't uttered a word. 

“You’ll be going into the shipyard tomorrow,” Illya says breaking their silence. Napoleon swirls the drink in his glass.

“Yes. Tomorrow night. As discussed.”

"I'm still not liking the idea." 

"Don't worry. We've done this before." 

Illya hums. He is wreaking his head, trying to figure out what else to say. Napoleon, on the other hand, is a little distracted by an Italian love song currently playing softly in the background. He knows he’s heard it before. The lyrics seem to hit too close to home, a song about someone reminiscing his past, about a long lost love. He gives Illya a sidelong glance. But Illya is not his…could he be? 

“You know this music?” he asks the Russian who starts to look at him questioningly. 

“No. But if Gaby was here she would be able to answer you.”

Napoleon chuckles and for the first time since they’d sat there that night, Napoleon takes a real good look at Illya. The music in the background is temporarily forgotten.

“I have a funny feeling he had planned all this, Waverly. He’d sent us here, just the two of us on purpose, without Gaby. Don’t you think?”

The thought had crossed Illya’s mind as well but why would Waverly do that, unless, of course, he knows about the predicament they are currently in. Surely Gaby had not told him anything? Surely not.

“I wouldn’t know, Cowboy,” Illya answers truthfully.

“Of course not,” Napoleon murmurs before silence befalls them once again. Illya drums his fingers around his empty glass. 

“We could have been on our way home right about now, but of course as always, you like to do everything the hard way,” he mutters afterwards like a grumble, after the silence between them had started to drive Illya a little crazy. Hearing that, Napoleon turns bodily to face his partner. 

“So, tell me something, do I always do it the hard way?”

Illya scoffs. He tries to ignore the look Napoleon is giving him, but it gets increasingly difficult. Taking a big swig of his drink, Napoleon then places his empty glass on the counter. When the bartender offers to serve more, he declines, only continues his focus on Illya. 

“Illya, tell me, what else do I do that annoys the hell out of you?”

“Oh, you don’t want to know, Cowboy.”

“Try me.”

That small smirk playing on Napoleon’s lips starts to do strange things to Illya’s insides again. This little moment between them has been absent for quite some time and Illya can’t even begin to explain how much he has missed them.

“I don’t even know where to start, if you really want to know,” Illya grins in return. 

Since they had arrived there, this is the first time Illya’s feeling at ease, but there is always that nagging feeling at the back of his mind, and he knows this moment will not last as long as he wants. He realises a second or two later that Napoleon is staring at him, with brows furrowed together. He is trying to read Illya.

“Illya, I know that—”

“What?” Illya quickly interrupts him before he could finish his sentence. He is aware their playful banter had taken a sudden serious turn. 

“I know you somehow matter—matter to me.”

Napoleon’s eyes are cast down. He’s staring at their fingers placed on the counter, inches apart. He has a good mind to pull Illya’s hand in his, not understanding why he wants to do so. And Napoleon’s words are like a dagger to Illya’s heart. “But I can’t quite place it yet. I can’t—”

“Solo—it’s all right. I understand it.”

“But at least that’s something, right? Better than nothing at all?” Napoleon looks up at him once again. 

“Yes, of course, it is.”

Later, much later, they adjourn to retire for the night but Napoleon stops Illya before he could disappear into his room. 

“One thing does come to my mind though.”

“What’s that, Cowboy?” Illya asks, hoping his voice hadn't sound too hopeful.

“I know for a fact that I can’t seem to beat you at chess. And I think I hate you for that.”

Illya lets out a low laugh. “Maybe we can play again sometime and see if luck can be on your side.”

“And let you beat me again? No thanks. I’ll skip the chess for now.”

Illya’s heart does a summersault when Napoleon suddenly smiles up at him, with that twinkle in his blue eyes. He wants so badly to reach out, wants to shake him so hard until he could remember his feelings once again. He wants to put his arm around him, do things he'd never imagined he'd wanted to do before. Why had he taken so long to realise what he’d felt for Napoleon? If only he had confessed sooner, they wouldn’t have been in this terrible mess. 

“Did we really like each other that much before?”

Napoleon’s sudden question, earnest and innocent, takes Illya by surprise, wants to make him laugh and cry at the same time. He quickly swallows the lump that had formed in his throat. 

“Let’s just say we always seem to agree to disagree.”

“So, you're saying you don’t really like me that much before this?” 

Illya shakes his head because Napoleon couldn’t be more wrong. “I wouldn’t say that.”

“You said you’d punched me when I’d kissed you.”

Illya’s eyes narrow, wishes Napoleon would drop the topic before it gets out of hand. He’s definitely wandering into dangerous territory at the moment. 

“You didn’t give me any warning. I was just shocked.”

“Really? I was under the impression that you’d—”

Napoleon stops, looks at Illya as if he is suddenly seeing more than he should, as if he is noticing something in his partner he hadn’t noticed before.

“Cowboy?” Illya asks, and then Napoleon shakes his head.

“Never mind, it’s nothing.”

Napoleon then looks away, unable to form the words he wants to say. “I better go, Illya.”

When he starts to leave, Illya stops him, grabs his wrist. “Wait, Napoleon. Just wait.”

Napoleon gives him a questioning look. “What?”

At any other time, this might seem like a bad idea, because goddamn it, they have a mission tomorrow and Illya knows he is going to regret this later, but he cannot seem to control this incredible urge in him any longer. The urge to kiss him. Unwittingly, he’s managed to grasp Napoleon’s arms in his hands, brings him a little closer towards him. 

“Do you trust me?” Illya asks.

“Yes,” Napoleon answers, unhesitant.

Illya swallows. “Then, can I just—just pretend, like you have not forgotten?”

“How?”

Like something has gotten control of his heart, Illya releases Napoleon’s arms, takes his face between his hands instead and Napoleon knows what he is going to do next when the Russian starts to lean in. “Illya,” he says like a half hearted warning but Illya shakes his head, gestures for him not to say anything. 

_“Just pretend.”_

And then he kisses him, slowly at first, and Napoleon reciprocates, lets him in. Illya’s fingers run up to his hair, pulls him in and a soft moan escapes Napoleon’s throat when Illya breaks the kiss. 

“I’m sorry again, Illya, I—“

Illya presses a finger on Napoleon’s lips, effectively shushing him. “It’s okay. Don’t say anything.”

“I’ve hurt you, haven’t I?”

Illya sees pure honesty in Napoleon’s eyes when he asks him that question. But Illya doesn’t need that, he needs Napoleon, the Napoleon he knows, the one that could easily break him to pieces with just a quirk of his lips. He lifts his hand and caresses his jaw. 

“Good night, Cowboy. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

And then Napoleon nods, and with a heavy heart he can’t understand why, leaves Illya standing there by his door.

 

***

 

Once he is inside that shipping yard, Napoleon cannot help but feel a sense of familiarity. Yes, of course, he had been there before, he remembers it that much, but there are bits and pieces of his memory that are still missing. He remembers picking a lock, breaking into the complex, and he remembers standing in front of that enormous vault like he is doing now. And then everything else seems like a blur. He cannot remember what had happened next. 

“Are you in, Solo?” Illya’s voice filters through their communication link seconds after, interrupting his chain of thoughts.

“Yes,” Napoleon answers. “I’m in front of the vault. Give me a few minutes.”

“Don’t forget to deactivate the alarm this time.”

There. What Illya said triggers something in his memory again. He knows he had been here with Illya. He had broken into the facility with him, remembers seeing him crouched down near the fence outside as he was preparing to break his way in, remembers their little childish argument about some CO2 laser. A sudden jolt runs through his body.

“Illya,” he says as he starts to unlock and open the vault. The alarm does not go off this time. Napoleon smiles.

“What is it?” 

Napoleon can hear the slight anxiousness in Illya’s voice. He wonders if it is a good time to let Illya know that he is starting to recall something at this very crucial moment. It might just distract the Russian but Napoleon cannot seem to hold it in. There is a rush of excitement swarming through him that he needs to share with his partner even if the detail is too trivial to feel euphoric about.

“Cowboy, what is it?” Illya asks when Napoleon remains quiet, worries if he has run into trouble. “Talk to me, Solo.”

“I think—I think I remember something, I was here with you and—”

But at that precise moment, their communication link goes off and all Illya hears after that is static. His heart races at once.

“Solo? Can you hear me?!” Nothing. 

Panic takes over Illya. Suspecting Napoleon is in trouble, he immediately abandons their getaway car which is hidden a couple of meters away from the vicinity of the shipyard to go after his partner. 

 

***

 

Napoleon easily disposes a security guard who had jumped on him unsuspectingly while he’d been in the vault. After getting the information he needed, he quickly manoeuvres his way out of the facility. While running out, dodging bullets aimed his way, blinding images of old memories flash through his mind, and he sees Illya’s face in front of his eyes. This is certainly deja vu, albeit he is missing his partner at the scene. As he climbs up a flight of stairs and hide behind a steel cabinet of sorts, he remembers how Illya had shot at the large glass window before jumping out and Napoleon had followed suit, thinking their bodies would meet water at the other side. 

Taking a different route of escape, Napoleon's momentum almost carried him over a narrow ledge as he tries to escape two burly men who are starting to close in on him. He could either jump down into the water, where he won’t hurt his hip like the last time, or stay there and get shot at which would probably be worse. But he has not enough time to consider his options when a bullet grazes his temple. He grunts in pain at the contact, loses his balance in the process and falls straight into the water, head first. The impact knocks him unconscious. 

 

***

Illya panics when he cannot locate Napoleon on his trackers and follows the path of destruction he'd left in his wake. A few gunmen had already fallen victim to Illya’s ruthlessness, and seconds later he could hear a couple of gun shots from above him. He runs up the stairs just in time to see Napoleon fall into the dark murky water. 

“Solo!” he shouts, shoots with deadly accuracy at the two armed men charging right at him before dumping their bodies onto the steely docks down below. 

“ _Napoleon!_ ” Illya shouts again, this time in desperation as he dives in after him, hoping he is not too late.

 

***

 

Napoleon feels strong arms wrap around his body as he is being pulled up onto the surface. It’s Illya, it has to be Illya, his fuzzy unconscious mind thinks. Water has filled his lungs, he is unsure whether he is breathing at the moment and the pain flaring in his head is starting to take effect on him. His head lolls against Illya’s shoulder as his partner swims them to the side of the dock. For a moment, he feels Illya holding him still, not moving, perhaps wanting to ensure no one else has noticed their movement in the water. But despite that, there is a sense of urgency and frantic in him when he senses Napoleon is not breathing. Turning him around so that now Napoleon is facing him, Illya grips his torso hard, and jerks him, at the same time he puts his lips over Napoleon’s and breathes air into his lungs. He repeats the movement a couple of times until a sudden hard jerk and Napoleon is coughing and gasping and water spurts out of his mouth. 

“Cowboy,” he mutters, shudders in relief. “You’re all right.”

Urging Napoleon to concentrate on his breathing and swimming, they make their way towards a dock stairs and Illya quickly hauls his partner up onto the waterfront. For a second, Illya catches his breath before leering down on Napoleon who is lying flat on his back, his eyes adjusting to the dim lighting around them.

“You’re bleeding,” Illya says, carefully moving his head to the side to check on his wound. Blood is trickling down his cheek and there is clear worry on Illya's face but Napoleon assures him it is nothing too serious.

“Just a bullet graze,” he says, before coughing weakly. “It’s not too bad.”

Brushing strands of wet hair off his forehead, Illya then leans in nearer, cradles Napoleon’s face in his hands.

“Head wounds are never good, Cowboy. We cannot stay here long. Goons will come looking for us.”

His eyes quickly scan the area and notices the trucks parked nearby. “We need to make a run for it.”

Napoleon is leaving it entirely to Illya now. He knows the mission is screwed and it’d been his fault.

“Waverly is not going to be happy with me. I lost the file in the water.”

“I will deal with him, but for now, we have to go.”

He’s about to pull Napoleon up but when the American murmurs, “Okay, Peril” Illya immediately freezes. His head whips towards Napoleon so hard, his neck twinges in pain at the movement he’d made.

“What did you just say?” he then asks, not quite believing what he’d just heard from Napoleon. His eyes are round and wide, his mouth is agape and Napoleon wonders if he had said something wrong.

“What?” Napoleon asks, confused.

“What did you just call me?” 

A flare of hope bursts in Illya’s heart as he repeats his question. He can’t quite believe Napoleon had said it but he needs to be sure, needs him to say it again. He clutches hard at Napoleon’s collar, desperate to hear him say the word again.

“Cowboy? What did you just call me? _Please?_ ”

Napoleon, his throbbing head still swimming after that fall in the water, is uncertain to what is making Illya so frantic. He tries to push himself up on his elbows but Illya stops him with one hand against his chest.

“Napoleon?”

“Peril, what is the matter? What are you doing? Help me get up, will you?”

But instead of answering his questions, Illya simply exhales and pulls Napoleon into a crushing hug, his arms curling around him in a strong hold. Napoleon is not quite certain what he should do, so he returns the compliment by bringing his arms up around Illya. 

Illya pulls back after a while and under the dim light of the docks, Napoleon sees the blue in Illya’s eyes shine brighter than he’d ever seen them before. 

“Peril?” Napoleon says again, and then Illya realises he cannot take it anymore, it’s too much for him to hold in, and before Napoleon could say anything else, he crushes his mouth on Napoleon’s, kisses him long and hard, kisses him like it would be the first and last time he’d ever get to do it. 

Through the haze in his brain, Napoleon registers, perhaps this is something he’s been wanting all this while too, and he arches up to Illya, arches up into the kiss, his fingers slipping and sliding through Ilya’s wet hair, ignoring the throbbing pain in his head. 

“Wha—at? Illya?” he asks breathlessly after Illya breaks the contact between their lips. Illya’s breathing hard, hiding his face now at the crook of Napoleon’s neck and then a choked sob escapes his lips. Napoleon, not understanding what’s happening, curls his fingers around Illya’s neck.

“Peril, you’re scaring me now.”

Illya lifts his face to look intently at Napoleon. “Cowboy—you called me Peril.”

It suddenly dawns on Napoleon why Illya is acting the way he does. His heart lurches as he closes his eyes and leans their foreheads together and murmurs, “How could I have forgotten that?”

Illya doesn’t say anything but simply kisses him again and again and again.

They are supposed to run, to hide. They are not cleared out of the woods yet, still need to make it to their getaway vehicle. And later they would need to report in to Waverly, tell him the mission is a failure, but then there they are still on that waterfront, sprawled together, practically hidden under the dim lights. Illya knows they can’t afford to stay there any longer, it's too dangerous and Illya can’t risk them getting caught, but at the moment, his heart is racing. And not because of the danger they are still in, but because Napoleon has given him a glimmer of hope that he’ll remember all the little details he’d forgotten. He'll remember his feelings for _him_.

And Illya is willing to wait, for as long as it takes, because he believes Napoleon eventually will remember. And even if he doesn’t, Illya knows they will always have _this_ between them. 

They will always have Rome.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- In the end, the fic tells you that Napoleon hasn't completely recovered his memories of Illya, but it does give Illya hope (he's certainly showing signs that he's able to). So it's kind of bittersweet ending, but Napoleon has always loved Illya, and eventually he'll find that love in him again.
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>  
> 
> -Thanks to everyone who has read this. Thanks for your lovely kudos and comments. I really do appreciate it. Hopefully, you've enjoyed this. Hope the ending is not too disappointing :) and the mistakes are all mine.

**Author's Note:**

> This fiction is loosely worked around the following article I'd found in the net.
> 
> MK Ultra was the name for a previously classified research program (started in the 1950's) through the CIA’s scientific intelligence division. It was the CIA’s program of research in behavioural modification and perception manipulation of human beings, previously known as Operation Paperclip.
> 
>  
> 
> [Read more here ](http://www.collective-evolution.com/2014/06/06/scientists-learn-to-selectively-erase-restore-memories-in-the-brain-at-will/)


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